Malleus Maleficarum
by wugglyump
Summary: Victims of the Parasite Spell have only a short while before their power is drained completely.  When Abigail Williams wakes in Drake Stone's penthouse, she proposes they work together to save themselves.  Can they find Horvath in time?
1. The Morning After

_Disclaimer/AN: Characters from The Sorcerer's Apprentice are owned by Disney. As is about 2/3 of Florida. Coincidence? I think not._

_There isn't enough Abigail Williams fic out there. Drake appears to have a small, but passionate cadre of fans, but I'm sure he'd love to have more. There will be only canon pairings in this fic; I'm going for a brother-sister dynamic with Drake and Abby, not romance. But everyone will make an appearance at some point._

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Early morning sunlight slanted between the velvet curtains of Drake Stone's penthouse apartment, glanced off a finely-wrought candelabra on his bedside table, and pooled on the floor beside his custom-made heart-shaped waterbed. The quilted coverlet had been pulled aside and the crimson satin sheets yanked off the mattress and shredded. They were currently twisted around their owner's wrists and ankles, and shoved into his mouth as a crude gag. Drake, fortunately, was out cold, and had been out cold, blissfully unaware of this rough treatment.

He was mostly under the bed, shoved as far into the cramped space as possible, only a shoulder and the trailing end of sheet-ropes sticking out.

Footsteps clicked down the hall, paused at the door, and were accompanied by a soft noise of disgust. A girl entered the room. Dressed in a simple brown gown with a wide collar, her dark hair tucked under a white cap, she was a dull contrast to the opulent red, gold, and brocade black of the room. Petal pink lips were set in a sneer as she took in the décor, and then she noticed the form under the bed. Rolling her eyes, she clenched small fists around a fold in the unconscious man's jacket and tugged. She wasn't strong enough to drag him out completely, but when most of his upper body was in view, she knelt and untied the gag.

"Wake up," she said evenly, shaking his shoulder.

He groaned and shifted slightly, "Nnh…little bit lower, love…you know how I like it."

She recoiled slightly, then scowled and gave him a resounding slap across the face. That did it. His eyes flew open and his shoulder jerked as he tried to raise a hand to defend the growing red mark she had left on his cheekbone. "Ow! What the bleeding hell was that f—who are you?"

Realizing he was bound and stuffed under his own bed, he began to struggle, half-panicked. "What happened? Where's Horvath? The last thing I remember…"

She was tempted to slap him again. "You talk too much. Try to push your way out of there and I might be kind enough to untie you. Horvath is gone. He betrayed us both."

She stood and made her way over to the window, peering down at the street below. Cars moved slowly along far beneath them. People walked along the sidewalk calmly. No screaming, no terror. To her, it was an inauspicious sign.

Drake stared after her a moment, then wriggled out from under the bed with an effort. "You're the girl, aren't you? The one from the Grimhold."

"Very astute." She didn't turn to look at him, and something about her tone reminded him of Horvath. He frowned, annoyed, and searched his memory for her name. "Abigail. Abigail Williams."

"Yes. And you are…?" She turned to stare at him coldly. In truth, his name meant nothing to her, but she supposed she needed him for now.

"Nggh!" He kicked his way free of the bed, then fought his way into a sitting position. "Drake Stone. He didn't even mention me?" He knew Horvath wasn't exactly his _friend_, or officially his master for that matter, but somehow he felt a little hurt.

It must have showed on his face, because the girl gave him an incredulous look. "No. He did not. But then I wasn't free for very long before he stole my power and my amulet."

Drake's eyes widened, then fell to his hands, bound in front of him. "My ring! It's gone!" He swore and tried to twist free of his bonds.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." She came over and untied his wrists grudgingly. "Of course it's gone, idiot. He used you. He used us both."

Drake scrambled to undo the sheets around his ankles, trying to collect his thoughts. "…he said something about some Haitian spell, and then he came up behind me…"

"The Parasite Spell," she moved to the doorway and folded her hands in front of her, nodding.

"That's not in my Encantus," he stood and stamped a little, trying to restore the blood flow to his numb feet.

"The Encantus contains the spells of Merlin and some of the spells of Lady Morgana. The Parasite Spell was invented much later on, in Hispaniola, by the sorceress Felicia Inmaculata. She coaxed secrets out of an old Arawak shaman and blended them with what she already knew of magic." Abigail turned and exited the room, her heels clicking down the hallway. She had already explored the penthouse and knew her way around well enough.

Drake stumbled after her. "Wait, what? How do you know all this? You're, what, twelve?"

"Fifteen," she corrected him with a faint frown, and stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. "And I know because Felicia was my teacher. Briefly."

"Right. Well. I didn't have one for very long, either," he muttered, following.

She stood by the sink and gestured around her. "This place," she said. "It's all for you? I assume it's not Horvath's; your portrait is all over the walls."

It was true. Hanging on the kitchen wall was a life-sized poster promoting his most recent show, and the 'Magic of Drake Stone' 2010 calendar. The current month's image was of him shirtless, chained and hovering over a cauldron of bubbling water, his expression stoic and confident. He smiled. "Yeah. Had it a little less than a year. There's people here off and on. Fans, groupies, entourage. But it's all mine."

"It's vulgar," she said. "Excess is unbecoming in a sorcerer."

"Look here," he scowled, "no one's making you stay. In fact, since I didn't invite you in the first place, why don't you just jump on your broom and go?"

"Do you want to die?" She turned and tilted her head to look up at him. He was more than a foot taller than she.

He hesitated, not sure whether to process this as a warning or a threat. "What are you getting at?"

"The Parasite Spell is lethal," she said quietly. "If not stopped or blocked. If you want to see your next birthday, you'll have to get your ring back."

He stepped back, then moved slowly to the kitchen table and sat down, staring at her in wordless shock.

"Just as I will need to retrieve my amulet," she went on, "because I have no intention of dying. And as little as I like depending on you, you obviously have money, contacts, and know the city better than I. Whereas I seem to have a better grasp of magic." She sniffed disdainfully.

"Wait," he said. "If Horvath wanted us dead, why did he just leave us? Why not kill us outright?"

"Because," she rolled her eyes. "He _didn't_ want us dead. The Parasite Spell relies on the victim continuing to generate magical power for the holder of his or her talisman. Once we die, he loses the boost he gained from us. But the inevitable result of having one's power drawn away across great distances is wasting death."

"Wasting?" He didn't like the sound of that.

"Excruciating, drawn-out, anguished death as body systems are deprived of resources and fail one by one," she clarified helpfully, then added, "I'm hungry. Show me where the food is so I can have breakfast."

"No," he said. "I'm not done with the topic at hand yet! What do we do? How long do we have?"

"We have a fortnight, give or take. And our best recourse will be to hunt Horvath down and take our things back. But I'll need to do some more research. Food. Now."

Drake stared at her, then realized he was hungry, too. "…all right," he said weakly and got up. "Normally I have Bob around to do this."

"A servant?"

"Mnn…sort of." He got out plates and glasses, then opened his refrigerator. "Milk? Cranberry juice?"

She peered under his arm. "Milk. Thank you. I'm capable of doing my part with chores as long as I'm living here, but I'll need time to acclimate."

"Aw, no need for that, love." He got out the milk and poured a little into a glass for her. "I have staff. Gave them the week off because Horvath said they were all going to die anyway, but I can cancel it." He got a few more things out of the fridge, then closed it and rifled through a nearby cabinet for bagels. "Come to think of it, why hasn't the world come to an end yet? Place should be crawling with undead Morganians."

"Oh, you finally noticed?" She smiled unpleasantly. "Obviously, he's failed. Perhaps even with our power the old man didn't have it in him to release Lady Morgana. But I think it more likely the last remaining Merlinians interfered."

"Balthazar Blake is still around," Drake frowned as he handed her the glass. "And kicking. And he's got an apprentice."

"The Prime Merlinian, yes. Horvath said so. He had me abduct his little girlfriend as a hostage. Pretty, I suppose, but excitable." She drank her milk with relish, then wandered over to the island counter and perched on a stool. "I don't know how it all turned out. But whether Horvath is alive or dead, we still need to reclaim our talismans. I don't know about you, but I hope he's still alive. I would like to kill him personally."

He stuck bagels in the toaster, watching her in his peripheral vision. "Remind me to stay on your good side."

She broke into a sudden, sunny smile. "Oh, do."

He turned to regard her thoughtfully as the bagels toasted. Cute kid, actually, now that he got a better look at her. Big brown eyes, dimples, smooth skin and shiny hair. Hard to believe she was wicked enough for Blake to hunt her down and lock her away.

"So what did you do?" he asked her.

She raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Other than the Lady M herself, there were only three of our kind in that doll. Horvath, Sun-Lok, and you. From what I hear, most of the time Balthazar Blake ran into a Morganian, he killed them. Now, it makes sense that he'd want to put Horvath away. That's personal. And I hear Sun Lok had some crazy invincibility spells, for all the good it did him. But you I don't get, unless he has a soft spot for little girls and just couldn't bump you off."

The colloquialisms threw her. She tilted her head at him, frowning, then started as the bagels popped up out of the toaster. He glanced over his shoulder and turned to retrieve them, putting them on two plates and spreading them generously with herbed cream cheese.

"It…may have been partly that," she said slowly, watching him. "But I suspect it was also, in a sense, personal. You do know that Blake was tortured in the Inquisition?"

He shook his head. "Hadn't read that one. Honestly, I'm not all that up on magical history and theory. Couldn't be bothered."

She wrinkled her nose, disapproving. "I see. Well, he was arrested as a heretic and a warlock, along with a couple students. I understand it was all very messy." She waved a hand dismissively. "Obviously he lived, but witch hunting became a bit of a sore spot, and I touched off a little trouble in Salem."

Drake nodded slowly. He wasn't all that up on American history, either, having only been in the country a few years. But the events at Salem tended to stand out as slightly lurid and larger than life. How many people dead? A dozen? Two dozen? He couldn't recall. "Bored?" he asked.

"Not exactly." She rested her chin in her hand. "It was an experiment in human behavior."

He piled lox on the bagels and slid a plate over to her, plopping himself on a stool on the opposite side of the counter. She prodded the bagel cautiously, not entirely certain what type of food she was being presented with, then picked it up and took a bite. Her eyes widened and she nodded in approval, chewed, and swallowed. "Very good. Thank you, Mr. Stone."

He stifled a smile, amused. "Drake."

"Is that proper?" she frowned. "I'm sure conventions have changed, but…"

"Nevermind that," he took a bite of his own bagel. "Go on with your story."

"Ah. There isn't much more to tell. I wanted to see how easily I could turn a neighbor against a neighbor." She ran her fingertip over the rim of her glass. "It was easy, so easy. My God in Heaven, people are fickle. All I did was give Betty a few nasty dreams, and the next thing I knew, the people around me turned into monsters."

She looked up at him and smiled. "That's all morality and love are worth, you see. They're pretty words we use to deny all the ugliness we carry around inside. Just a little push and it all comes pouring out."

He stilled at her words, a little chilled. To him magic was a way to rise above the rabble, to get the things he wanted, and part of him didn't care who he stepped on, on the way up. That was what made him a Morganian: ruthless ambition. But she was talking about something else. He didn't have a name to put to it.

He must have stared too long, because she frowned at him. "What? You disapprove?"

He raised a hand defensively. "I didn't say that. I was just thinking."

"Well, stop thinking." She resumed eating with dignity. "You'd do the same. Any of us who bear the Lady's name would."

He struggled for a way to change the subject, and hit on the most obvious thing in the world. "Not about that. I was thinking you're going to need a change of clothes if we're going to walk around Manhattan looking for Horvath. The whole corset and bustle thing isn't done anymore."

"Corset and what?" She shook her head. "I don't understand half of what you say, Mr. Stone, but I can certainly alter my own clothing however you see fit."

"Not on your life, Abby." He grinned. "I can call you Abby, right?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Great!" He ignored her. "We'll get you set up like a real girl of the 21st century. And then…"

"Then we'll kill Horvath?" she suggested.

"I was going to offer you a tour of the city," he said reproachfully. "But we'll get to that, too."

"You aren't taking this seriously at all," she said.

"'Course I am." He got up to get himself some cranberry juice. "But you've got to have a laugh, haven't you? If you can't have a laugh, you might as well be dead."


	2. Incubus

_Disclaimer from Chapter one still applies. I would also like to note that in my opinion keeping big cats as pets is a bad idea. Don't try this at home._

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"No, no, no," Drake struggled not to laugh. "He's not talking to himself. Look at his ear. You see the little thing there? Voices come through it. He's talking to them."

Abigail, seated on a bench in Central Park next to him, squinted against the sunlight, eyeing the businessman nearby. He did indeed have a small gray appliance in one ear, but she shook her head, still mystified. "So instead of speaking to the air, he is speaking to voices in his head. I fail to see how this makes him less insane."

"It's a communication device," Drake rolled his eyes. "Look, I have one." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.

Abigail eyed it with suspicion. "It carries the voice across a distance?"

"Not just that," he nodded. "Text and pictures, too. Look here, I've got a message…"

He opened the photograph, thinking he recognized the sender. Unfortunately, he failed to remember her as a rather infatuated fan. The photo he had received was a snapshot of a pair of substantial breasts.

"Dear God!" Abigail sputtered, shielding her own eyes with her hand. Though he had talked her into changing into clothes more appropriate for the time period (loose jeans and a simple white blouse), she was still very much a Puritan.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He fumbled with the phone, closing the image hurriedly. "They're not all like that, I swear!"

"I am sincerely glad to hear that. If women in this time and place are expected to shamelessly throw themselves at any man who meets their fancy, I will most certainly stand out." She seemed reluctant to look back at the phone, face flushed and turned in the direction opposite him.

He closed the phone and put it away. "Well, she was probably a little drunk…"

Her head whipped around and she gave him an appalled look.

"Er…" he had the grace to look embarrassed. "We can talk about advances in technology later."

"As long as I'm not required to view any more portraits of your whores."

"That's a little harsh, Abby," he placed emphasis on the nickname she had already grown to dislike. "I said sorry."

She grunted in acknowledgement, but remained peevishly silent for several minutes. Drake allowed himself to consider the predicament he was in, head tilted back against the bench to savor the sun on his face. He was powerless, unable to practice the tricks upon which his career depended. If Abigail's assessment were correct, and he had no reason to doubt it was, he was dying. And on top of that, he had been recruited to babysit a fifteen-year-old from the 17th century, a girl who, however clever she might be, had no idea how to react to the cultural standards of the day. The salacious snapshot he had inadvertently flashed at her was just the most recent in a series of mishaps that had begun as soon as they had left his penthouse. The street noises stressed her, the cars were viewed with suspicion, billboards and advertisements were met with tirades about lewdness and indecency. Even shopping for clothing had proved awkward; she was horrified at the way the undergarments had been displayed on the mannequins, in full view of both sexes. She disapproved of bright colors, lace, sequins, glitter. Heaven only knew what she thought of what he was wearing.

Part of him wanted to be rid of her, and fast. He needed her expertise to find Horvath, to survive the Parasite Spell. But he didn't need the constant irritation of her disapproval, that was for damn sure. Horvath had managed to hide his disgust with Drake most of the time, had acted reasonably civil, had even shared a few laughs with him. Abigail was like a block of ice.

But, whether it was his prescription-grade abandonment issues acting up, or whether it was something intrinsic to the young Morganian's personality, he couldn't stand giving up on her quite yet. Couldn't accept there was no way to make her like him.

"Idiot boy," he could hear his long-absent master's voice. "You don't need people. You _use_ them."

But Drake had always courted the admiration of those around him. Abandoned before birth by his father, he had lived with a series of stepfathers and would-be boyfriends who saw him as little more than a roadblock to his mother's bed. He learned quickly that he could get things from these men. Money, candy, toys and ice cream. Anything to get him out of their way and please his mother, who, being as poor as a church-mouse, had little to offer him beyond a roof over his head and the clothes on his back. He played the part most advantageous to him, the good-natured, slightly cheeky little boy, clever but not too clever. Friendly, but never demanding. By getting along with her boyfriends, he earned favor with his mother. By never being too heartbroken when one left, he kept it.

He had gone over this aspect of his past with his therapist repeatedly, and by now he recognized the pattern in his relationships with people. Hold them in a death-grip, but at arm's length.

Arm's length would be easy enough with Abby, anyway. He sighed and straightened, opening his eyes. "I need to check on Inky. You coming or do you want to go back to the flat?"

"Inky?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

He shrugged and stood, smiling mysteriously. "You'll have to get in a car. Inky lives in Jersey."

She got up and rolled her eyes, annoyed by his beating about the bush. "Will we get food on the way? It's after noon."

He glanced at his watch. "Sure, why not? I'll buy you an ice cream."

* * *

As it turned out, she forgot all about food as soon as he started the car, clinging to the upholstery and closing her eyes desperately. She didn't utter a word of complaint, however, so he just turned on the radio to the classical station and drove as slowly as he dared. She seemed to relax as they got out of the city and the traffic thinned a little.

"This…is Jersey?" she opened one eye and looked around warily as the suburbs flashed by.

"Not as bad as you were afraid of?" He smirked.

"So many houses…" she murmured. "Salem? Is it still standing?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Probably looks different from what you remember, but it's there."

She looked like she wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased, and it occurred to him for the first time how lost she must be.

"Everyone I ever knew is dead," she said thoughtfully.

"…sorry." He glanced at her briefly, trying to decide what kind of emotion he heard in her voice. "You…miss your family or…?"

She snorted. "Don't be absurd. They were nothing to me."

But she rested her forehead against the glass of the window, and her expression grew distant. He found he didn't quite believe her.

At last they pulled up through a tree-lined gravel driveway. They house they approached was small, but it sat on several acres of land, and several buildings and fenced in enclosures surrounded it. Abigail was silent as they parked, but as they got out she frowned intently at a large, tawny shape just visible in one of the closer enclosures.

"…is that a lion?" she asked softly.

Drake beamed at her innocently and led the way around the back as if he owned the place. "They call him Goliath. Haven't worked with him yet. They just got him a few months ago. Inky's this way."

She seemed reluctant to move away from the large enclosure where the sleeping male lion lay, but followed him after a moment of staring.

Drake walked up a gently sloping hill, pausing in front of another enclosure. It looked empty, but he whistled, and after a moment a shadow stirred in a covered area to the back. Lazily, it moved toward them, and Abigail caught her breath softly. It was a black panther, nearly eight feet long from nose to tail-tip, with pale yellow eyes. The fur shimmered in the sunlight, muscles churning visibly beneath.

"This is Inky," Drake said cheerfully. "Short for 'Incubus'. He's mine."

Abigail hooked her fingers through the chain links and stared. "He's magnificent!"

He grinned, pleased to have finally come up with something that got a positive reaction out of the girl. "I have to have one for my show," he explained as the panther paced back and forth in front of the fence. "But it's against the law to keep them as pets, at least in New York. A business can own one, but you have to prove you're feeding him enough, giving him enough space, letting him see a vet."

"So you can't have him in your home," she nodded. "Do you own this place, then?"

"Part-owner," he shrugged. "I don't have to do much of anything but sign off on receipts and come to the Christmas party. But I like to check up on Inky, so he doesn't forget the sound of my voice."

"He thinks you have something for him," she observed, as the panther sprawled on the ground near Drake, only the chain links separating them.

Drake crouched and stuck his fingers through the wire, just barely able to touch the sleek fur. "No treats today, sorry," he told the cat. "Next week."

Abigail knelt and imitated him, pushing her hand against the wire. The fur was coarser than it looked, but smooth, and hot from the sun. The panther's skin twitched at the light touch, but it didn't move otherwise.

"He's never bitten you?" she drew back and looked over at Drake, whose expression had taken on a kind of childlike contentment. It took a hell of a lot of money to be rich, but when you got perks like this, it was worth the effort.

"Didn't say that," he smirked. "Notice how I'm not going in there without my ring? He's never attacked me seriously, but they play rough."

"I had a bird once," she said. "A canary. When I was in Barbados. I wanted a dog."

He glanced at her curiously. "You're a bit of an animal person, yeah?"

"I like them better than people, but that's not saying much." She stood, but seemed reluctant to move away.

"Mr. Stone! Drake!" A middle-aged woman was hurrying up the hill toward them, beaming. "I'm so glad you're here. We have a chance to get a white tiger cub, finally. Someone was keeping her in a dog kennel in Queens, if you can believe it, and I know you've been wanting one for your show, so I thought—oh, hello." She broke off, finally noticing Abigail.

Drake slung an arm around Abigail's shoulder in a way she clearly found too familiar. "Afternoon, Sue," he greeted the older woman. "This is my…cousin, Abby."

"Abigail," she corrected sepulchrally, but she didn't object to being labeled a relative.

"Oh! I'm so pleased to meet you," Sue shook the girl's hand enthusiastically.

"White tiger, you said? How old?" Drake prompted.

"Seven months," she said. "I have photos. Come inside!"

They followed her down the hill to the house, but Abigail stared over her shoulder at the reclining panther in its cage as they went.

* * *

She was calmer on the drive home, sitting primly in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap. Eyes closed, she said, "That woman was absolutely besotted with you. It was embarrassing."

"Who, Sue?" Drake chuckled. "Maybe. Must be my charisma."

"I thought perhaps it was your money," she said.

"That never hurts," he conceded.

"Are you very rich?" her voice was quiet.

"At the moment," he shrugged. "It hasn't always been that way. And it won't stay that way if I can't do my shows."

"It disturbs me that you use the elemental powers of the universe to entertain plebian crowds for your own selfish gain," she smirked faintly.

He frowned. "Horvath said about the same thing, you know. I don't see the problem. Money makes the world go round nowadays, not magic. Why not use one to get the other?"

"It just seems beneath you," she shrugged.

He sighed, feeling like he'd been over this recently. "My master vanished when I was fifteen. I could have used a little more training, but I've made do with what I had."

She tilted her head to look at him. "I lost mine when I was ten."

"That Felicia woman?" he asked slowly. "The one who knew the Parasite Spell?"

"That's right." She nodded. "I met her in Barbados, when I was only six. My father was courting her at the time, but I think she only went along with it because of me."

"Where was your mum?" he asked, almost gently.

"She died when I was two. In childbirth. My little brother," she explained calmly. "But he didn't survive either."

"So Felicia was like a surrogate mother…thing?" he asked awkwardly. He had come to realize he had thought of his own master as a father substitute. It didn't seem far-fetched.

Abigail gave him an odd look. "She was my master. It's not the same thing. I suppose if she'd been willing to marry my father it might have been." She sighed. "It would have been nicer, anyway. Instead, my father got tired of waiting for her and went chasing after some other woman. When she accepted him, he sent me away."

"Sent you away? What for?" Drake frowned.

"I suppose I was in the way," her tone was suspiciously emotionless.

He was silent a long moment, sympathetic but suspecting she wouldn't take kindly to pity. "Well…you must be a quicker learner than I was," he said cheerfully at last. "If you're as good as you seem to be with only four years of lessons."

"I'm reasonably good at teaching myself," she said, then frowned. "Still, it doesn't bode well that we're both half-trained, does it? Not against Horvath."

"I was trying not to think about that," he admitted. "We need a plan."

"We need an ally," she corrected. "What happened to that Sun-Lok you mentioned?"

He was startled by the leap her mind had made. "…According to Horvath, the Prime Merlinian crushed him under his own dragon."

"That's unfortunate," she sighed.

"…well, wait a moment," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Like I said before, Sun-Lok was supposed to have a bunch of crazy invincibility enchantments on him. There's a chance he survived. Especially since the Merlinians were in a rush at the time."

"And the Prime Merlinian can't have been well-trained yet," she perked up a little. "It's worth a try."

Drake smiled at her. "I guess we're going to Chinatown."


	3. Street Noise

_Disclaimer from Chapter 1 applies. Also, in case no one realized, the characters' opinions on religion and potential world domination are not necessarily those of the author._

_Sorry this one took so long. I was looking for a way to dump exposition on you without you noticing it was an exposition dump._

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It was a disaster. Complete disaster. Everything he had hoped and planned for had gone utterly awry.

"How does it feel," he had asked Balthazar, "To have fought for centuries to prevent this moment from happening, only to come up short?"

Well, now he knew. Maxim Horvath, first of Merlin's three apprentices, oldest and arguably most powerful remaining follower of Morgana, sorcerer of the 777th degree, had lost the war.

After watching his Mistress rendered into dust by a one-two punch of magic and science, he had fled while the Prime Merlinian was reviving Balthazar. Executing a series of rapid-fire teleports to cover his trail, he nevertheless had not made it out of Manhattan, halting his rush to escape on the edge of Central Park. He spent the night there, slinking under the trees and clutching his cane in a white-knuckled grip. He cursed himself for cowardice, but he knew returning to Battery Park would only result in his own pointless death, and while he had followed Morgana loyally, he had never followed her blindly.

Morgana was gone now, and she was never a sentimental woman. Mourning wasn't the proper way to honor her passing. Revenge was.

There, too, was the fact that her death left a power vacuum. A space to be filled. Sitting on a bench near the towering shape of Cleopatra's needle, Horvath trailed a finger over the trophies he had retained. A ring belonging to a foolish stage magician. A pentacle owned by a wicked little girl. And Merlin's ring, no longer required by its master. He twisted the tiny dragon free of his cane and peered at the inscription: _Take me up. Cast me away._

He felt a little cast away himself. Still, he could feel the enchantments that thrummed through the ring's magical core. Spells to draw power, to hold it, to key it to react to the right person at the right time. He thought he could almost see his former master's ghost reflected in the winking jewel. Any ring worked best for its rightful owner; after multiple times interfacing with a sorcerer's nervous system, they formed a kind of link. And anything linked to a person strongly enough could be used to ensorcel them. Why, in the old days, Morgana had told him, when she and Merlin were young and magic was stronger, a good sorcerer could curse someone using a footprint he had left, or the ground over which his shadow had passed. There was no need to go to those extremes, though. Not when he had a perfectly good link to the Prime Merlinian resting in his hand.

He smiled. It wasn't over after all. Not yet. Morgana would never return, but that left him as the obvious heir to her legacy. And he would not abdicate.

Full of purpose once more, he left the park in a flicker of wind and magic. He needed a base of operations, and he knew he had one friend left in the City.

* * *

Niccolo Candelario looked to be in his late fifties. In reality he was thirty years older. He had buried two wives and had a host of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, most of whom he avoided like the plague. His father had been a civilian facilitator for the Morganians; he had kept a list of who still lived, who did what best, and who could take on an apprentice if a child of talent was discovered. It was not a volunteer position. Morganians who came to see the list always offered a substantial bribe, as well as additional protection spells to keep them out of Balthazar Blake's clutches. Niccolo's father had been a wealthy man.

It all fell apart in 1929, after Maxim Horvath had been locked in the Grimhold. A kind of panic had swept the Morganian camp. Almost everyone went into hiding. Dozens had removed their names from the list without paying. No one would update. They had tracked whom they could, but once Niccolo's father had died, there was not a soul left who could guess at how many Morganian sorcerers remained.

Niccolo had forgotten about it for decades until the night when Horvath had appeared at the diner off 163rd Street where he worked, demanding soldiers to fight for him. He had connected him with Drake Stone, the only Morganian he knew in the country. And he had hoped to be able to forget the whole damn thing again. His father had believed in the cause, but in his opinion, the only good thing about sorcerers was their money.

Now, a few days later, it was 5 AM, and he woke from uneasy dreams to find an all-too-familiar shape looming over his bedside. With a hoarse cry, he catapulted himself out from under the covers and groped for the revolver on his nightstand. It immediately melted in his hand.

"Relax," said Horvath in his low, cultured tones. "I'm not here to harm you. I'll even pay this time."

"There isn't anyone else," he snapped, sagging against the wall, half-relieved, half-annoyed. "Except Magda Siracova in Bulgaria, and everyone knows she's off her nut."

"Oh, is she still alive? I'd have thought all the absinthe would have done her in. Well, something to keep in mind. Insane people can still be useful." He wandered over to the chair in the corner of the bedroom and sat, crossing one leg over the other casually. "But I'm not after more cannon fodder just yet."

Niccolo picked his bathrobe up off the floor and pulled it on without taking his eyes off the sorcerer. "What do you want, then?"

"I want to hide behind your concealment charms. They must still be in effect or Blake would have gotten to you by now."

Slowly, he knotted the belt around his waist. True, the only reason he stayed in the aging flat he had grown up in was because the layers of protections Morganians had placed on it over the years were still useful. But Horvath implying he needed a hiding place was more than a little ominous.

"What happened to Stone?" he asked.

Horvath's expression darkened. "The man was an idiot."

"You killed him?" He sidled away. "But he was…your kind."

"I don't have a kind, Candelario," Horvath waggled his cane for emphasis. "I'm my own man, and I needed his power. But never mind that now."

"How do I know I'm not next? I should call the police. I should…" He didn't move. There was nothing he could do more quickly than Horvath could reach him with magic.

"Yes, take your time, consider your options," the sorcerer soothed. "I think you'll find humoring me is your best choice for now. Unless you'd like to be bound with cold-forged iron and forced to do my bidding."

Niccolo paled. The faery blood that ran through his veins had been thinned by three generations, but it was powerful enough still to extend his lifespan, and virulent enough to make him subject to a Morganian summoning circle. He swallowed hard and folded his arms across his chest. "Not my kink," he grumbled. "How long are you staying?"

"At least a week," Horvath said. "You have a guestroom, I presume?"

"It's storage," he sighed, "But I can unbury the bed."

"Good. Go do it; I'm exhausted." Horvath reached into a pocket and pulled something out, tossing it to him.

He flinched instinctively, but managed to catch it. It was a gold pocketwatch, easily worth thousands. His jaw dropped.

"My assets are…not terribly liquid at the moment, but I assume that will buy your loyalty for a while."

Candelario ran a finger over the object and smiled. It put things in a much better light. Provided it wasn't just a rock enchanted to look like gold, of course. He glanced up at Horvath, slipped the watch in his robe pocket and made for the door of the room. "You want coffee or anything?" He asked as an afterthought.

"Thank you, but no. Sleep is what I want now. Knits up the raveled sleeve of care and all that."

He nodded politely and scurried off to the spare room. Damn it, he was always a sucker for the carrot-and-stick routine.

* * *

He picked up a tourist guide for her at the information kiosk, and she thumbed through it slowly as they walked down Mulberry street, brow furrowed as she tried to take in foreign concepts in bright print. At least she wasn't staring at the people around them. She was used to the skin colors of the Arawak slaves her uncle had taken, Tituba and John, and she had seen plenty of black slaves working the sugar plantations in Barbados, but Asian features were wholly unfamiliar. She hadn't asked any embarrassing questions yet, but Drake was anticipating a display of the casual racism of her time period at any moment.

"I want a history book," she said at length. "I don't understand most of this."

He shrugged. "I'll show you the internet later. You can catch up."

"I have a great deal of catching up to do," she somehow managed to dodge a bicycler zipping by without looking up from the guidebook. "If we live. I will have to find another teacher…"

His eyes strayed to a pretty young woman cleaning up a fruit display at the front of a grocery, her sleek black hair knotted into short pigtails wrapped with flowers. "Hold on a sex…er…sec, Abby. I'm just going to ask directions."

Abigail made a noncommittal sound, then folded the book closed and stared after him as he loped over to the Chinese girl, arranging his features into a winning smile.

"Uh…ni hao?" he ran his fingers through his hair in a way he seemed to think was charming. "You live here? Is this your place?"

"My aunt's. I'm only here on weekends. Is there something you want?"

"Well, a friend of mine was here the other night when the fire happened, right? And he was telling me this crazy story," Drake chattered at the girl cheerfully and began to handle the produce, as if considering whether to buy.

Abigail went back to her guidebook, tuning them out, but a minute later she felt her senses tingle subtly. Looking up, she saw something yellow float past. Taking it for a stray piece of paper, she reached after it, then paused as it drifted toward the young woman talking to Drake.

It was a golden butterfly.

She frowned thoughtfully. It was February, and the air still held a significant bite. A delicate insect abroad in this weather seemed strange.

The Chinese girl swatted at the butterfly lightly as it made a halfhearted attempt at the flowers in her hair. It recoiled, alighted on a ripe mango for a moment, then took off down the street. After a glance back at the preening Drake, Abigail followed it.

The insect pushed itself higher into the air and flew erratically around buildings and vehicles, leading Abigail slowly around one corner and up another street. A moped zooming past startled her, shattering her concentration on her quarry, and when she looked around again, the butterfly was gone. Now, however, there was something else to look at. Across the street from her was a small knot of cops and cop cars, a yellow police line stretched along the sidewalk.

"Kind of weird, huh?" a young Chinese man in a sharp business suit paused to follow her line of vision. "My girlfriend works in the church office. She's pretty freaked out."

"What?" she edged back a step, wary of friendly strangers. "What do you mean?"

He nodded at the police activity, and this time when she looked she saw a red scrawl across the brick and concrete of the looming building. It was a sequence of what she could only presume were Chinese characters, repeated several times. "I can't read that," she frowned.

He looked amused. "Actually, neither can I. My grandmother's so pissed off I never learned. But my girl can. She says it's a slogan from, like, 1890-some. 'Support the Qing! Destroy the foreigner!'"

"The Qing?"

"The ruling house of China in the 1800s. There was some political unrest. Westerners bringing in opium and trying to take over the country."

"But we are not in China now."

"No, whoever the vandal was, they're a couple centuries late and in the wrong hemisphere." He sobered. "But they're not playing. One of the priests got attacked, too. He's in Intensive Care, but they think he'll make it."

"Are they certain it is connected?" Wheels turned in her brain.

"Fairly. The same stuff is painted all over the church walls." He glanced at his watch. "Sorry, I gotta get going. But just FYI, the Church of the Transfiguration isn't open to visitors today, if that's where you were headed."

"Oh. Mm…thank you," she watched uncertainly as he jogged off down the sidewalk, hailing a cab at the corner.

A moment later, Drake appeared at the same corner, looking around frantically. He relaxed when he saw her and loped over, now carrying a large paper bag of produce from the grocery he had just left. "You shouldn't wander off like that, Abby," he complained as he got close. "It's not like we can do a spell to find one another if you get lost."

Ignoring this, she peered in the bag. "Why did you buy all that? Don't you have food at home?"

"Hey, fresh ginger root is hard to come by. And, uh, I don't know what the spiky things are, but she said they're good." He shrugged. "Bob can figure out what to do with them."

"…I see." She raised an eyebrow at him.

He grinned innocently. "Got her number, anyway."

"Did you get any useful information?" She sighed.

"Actually, yes. She knows a paramedic who was at the scene after the explosion. Lots of minor burns, and the guys who were performing the dragon dance were pretty shaken up, but there were no bodies recovered."

"That would seem to indicate Sun-Lok is alive in some form, somewhere." She pointed at the graffiti across the way. "I'm told that may have a significant meaning." She relayed what the young businessman had told her.

Drake nodded slowly. "Honestly, where Chinese history is concerned, your guess is probably as good as mine," he admitted, "but that sounds like the right time period for when Sun-Lok was supposed to have been captured. Could be Horvath didn't have time to get him caught up once he was released."

"He certainly didn't take much time to explain things to me," Abigail grumbled. "But he never intended for me to live long."

"No point dwelling," he elbowed her gently. "You want to check out this church?"

It was only a few blocks away, an elegant, towering building whose grounds appeared to be closed for the moment to all but law enforcement. Abigail eyed the elegant statue of Christ over the doors and raised an eyebrow. "Papists?" she murmured thoughtfully.

Drake gave her a look. "We don't call them that any more, Abby. Freedom of religion and all that?"

"Hm? Oh. I meant no offense," she glanced up at him. "All religions strike me as equally foolish, to be frank."

"Yeah?" Given her background, he was surprised. "What about what we do?"

"Sorcery is a skill, not a faith."

"I'm inclined to disagree," he said, and beckoned her around an alley, hoping to find a place to sneak in. "You can't see magic. Can't touch it or taste it. But we believe in it. We believe in using it to make a better world. I mean, it's only a better world for _us_, not for everyone, but still. And we believe in the Lady."

"Lady Morgana," she murmured. "Who would bow to no man."

He recognized the phrase from an old initiation ritual in his own Encantus. He had never been one to delve too deeply into the philosophy behind Morganian rites, but the way she said the words caught his attention. "…you mean that differently than the way I understand it, don't you."

She smiled faintly. "My master taught me that even the best of men seek to rule their women. You can choose a benign ruler or a wicked tyrant, but either way you choose a lock and chain."

"It's not like that anymore," he said. "Women can do whatever they want."

She shook her head. "Social mores have evolved, perhaps, but the fundamental nature of humanity does not change."

"…You know I'm not like that, right?"

She gave him an opaque look. "I've already seen you collect girls like dolls. It's only that you don't expect to keep them long."

Stung, he watched as she turned and moved on ahead, running her fingers over a chain link fence separating two lots. "At any rate," she said softly, "Morgana must be dead now."

"We don't know that," he protested. "Like you said, maybe Horvath just failed to free her…"

She glanced back at him. "Maybe." The word carried little hope.


	4. Butterflies

_Disclaimer blah blah blah. Remarkably little happens this chapter, but I felt like the Merlinians needed some screentime. Also, Horvath isn't my favorite character, but damn his dialogue is fun to write._

_Candelario's car is newer than mine, incidentally._

* * *

"Okay, okay," Balthazar raised his hands conciliatorily, stifling a wince as sore back muscles complained. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. But it's over 3000 miles from New York to France…as the steel eagle flies. Why you would think you could just glide off into the night—and you do realize how cold it gets at high altitudes? Your girlfriend would have been a Popsicle before you got there."

Dave glared at him over his coffee cup. "I could have improvised. We went over teleportation."

"…teleportation, yes, but when you're already going 60 miles an hour it becomes 60 times more difficult." The old sorcerer rubbed his temples. "I don't want to argue about this. I really don't. I…owe you. A lot. Just _please_ try not to kill yourself before I can pay you back?"

The Prime Merlinian scuffed a toe on the turnaround floor. After Balthazar and Veronica had retrieved him and Becky, they had all settled in the lab for the night, camped out on the floor amid books and Tesla coils. Dave and Becky had kept an awkward distance apart out of mutual respect, but Balthazar and Veronica had curled up together like puppies, as if afraid to be separated while they slept. Now, while Becky showered and Veronica slept, Master had pulled aside Apprentice for a talk.

"You…don't owe me anything," Dave muttered into his coffee. "You saved me a couple times, too."

"With some sort of look in my eyes, apparently." He smirked. "I'd love to know what you meant by that. But that wasn't what I was getting at. You stepped up to a responsibility you never asked for, with a bare minimum of time to train and get used to the idea. And you succeeded. You are truly the Prime Merlinian." Balthazar wasn't looking at him, but there was pride in his voice, and Dave fought to keep from blushing.

"Um. Y-yeah," he fidgeted. "So…what now?"

This time, Balthazar did look up, and his gaze was piercing. "To a significant degree, that's up to you. Horvath is still alive, evidently, and I wouldn't put it past him to be a nuisance. But you've done all I asked and more. If you want to put all this behind you, that's your right. I can't promise it will _never_ come back to bite you in the ass, but I'm willing to run interference. Maxim is my problem."

Dave took a gulp of his coffee. He could hear the water running upstairs as Becky showered, and he fancied he could hear her singing, too. He wasn't sure it was fair to ask her to deal with the weird world he had fallen into unwittingly at the age of ten. On the other hand, she had been more than understanding so far. She had stepped up, too. Without her help in breaking the Morganian circle in the sky, they would have had a lot more foes to deal with.

She also hadn't complained about breakfast in France falling through. He would see to a raincheck, that was for sure.

And then there was the infuriating, enigmatic man now helping himself to the remainder of the coffee while he waited for Dave to speak. He had waited far longer than Dave for a chance at a little peace. Abandoning him now seemed heartless.

"I know there's more to learn," he said slowly. "I don't even know what degree I'm at."

"Two-hundred-thirty-some," Balthazar said. "Technically not an adept, and there are some holes. But you're quite accomplished, considering."

Dave smiled faintly. Balthazar was a little reserved with praise, but he gave credit where credit was due. "Thanks. What I mean is…this is who I am now. I'm not about to quit college or anything. I still want to get my PhD someday, maybe hook up with a lab or, I don't know, NASA or whatever. But I need this, too."

The older man looked at him and nodded slowly. "For what it's worth," he said, "I think you could go all the way to the 777th, if you keep it up. I've only known a handful who made it there. And we're the last Merlinians. Maybe the world still needs us, and maybe it doesn't, but I hate to just let the line die out."

"You could have said that in the first place."

"It wouldn't have been your choice, then." He shrugged, then turned as Veronica stirred, anxiety and excitement lighting up his expression. He set aside his coffee cup and limped hurriedly to her side as she opened her eyes and sat up. She smiled and took his hands. Dave had no idea what language they greeted one another in. Middle English? Latin? Welsh? He turned away and crouched to tie his shoe, giving them privacy. It was a little weird to see Balthazar acting like a lovesick puppy, anyway.

When he straightened, Becky was less than a foot away from him, her golden hair hanging in wet curls around her face. He jumped, and she started in response, having not intended to startle him.

"Whoa! Sorry!" She laughed. "Guilty conscience?"

"No! I just didn't hear your stealthy approach." He grinned sheepishly.

"I'm like a ninja." She put her arms around him tentatively. After only one passionate kiss and a brief eagle ride, they were still feeling their way around one another's personal space. He took the bait gladly, though, and hugged her close. She smelled like his own shampoo, which was a bargain brand he picked up in bulk when he could. On her it smelled incredibly sexy. Maybe it was some kind of girl pheromone thing.

"I didn't know ninjas were so pretty," he said, belatedly and a little hopefully, looking for brownie points.

"Ninjas are hungry. They need breakfast after a busy night of helping save the world." She kissed the tip of his nose.

He immediately offered her Balthazar's coffee.

"Hey!" The older Merlinian was quick to notice. "I thought I had dibs."

"Ladies first." Dave frowned at him.

Veronica seemed to be trying not to laugh. "We could go out somewhere," she suggested. "I saw shops on our way here last night."

She was quick to acclimate. Dave had to admire that. "Maybe that would be better," he admitted. "Balthazar already drank out of this cup. He probably has 1300-year-old germs."

Said sorcerer rolled his eyes but didn't put up a defense for the moment.

"There's a café up the street," Becky smiled and took the cup out of Dave's hand, setting it back on the counter. "Let's all go. I know the assistant manager, she'll give us a discount. And anyway, I want the unabridged version of what last night was all about."

Veronica stood, smoothed her hair, and scanned first her own gown, then Becky's clothing. There was a flicker of liquid light over her body as her clothes adjusted to her will, and she was left in simple blue jeans and a lacy violet blouse. "Will this blend in appropriately?"

"…That works," Becky was still a little dazzled by magic, but taking everything in stride.

"How come she can adjust to modern fashion and you can't?" Dave smirked at Balthazar.

Balthazar looked a little dazzled by Veronica. "…because, I…shut up, Dave." He took his newly restored lover's hand and stood stiffly, still aching from being thrown around Battery Park the previous night. Veronica kissed his cheek chastely, and together they made their way up the steps out of the turnaround.

The younger couple followed. "They're kind of sweet, aren't they?" Becky murmured.

"Uh…" Dave glanced at the back of Balthazar's head warily. "Sure."

* * *

"Look," Drake said slowly, "I don't want to make a big production, but my cousin here is only in town today, and she's really interested in historical monuments. Churches, museums, that kind of thing. What if I made a contribution?" He shoved the bag of produce into Abigail's arms and patted his pockets in search of his wallet.

She staggered a little but made no complaint. The back entrance of the Church was guarded by a formidable older woman and a younger assistant. She wasn't sure whether they were nuns or lay-leaders of some sort, but neither was kindly disposed toward curious visitors.

"I'm not sure what you think you have to gain here, Mr. Stone," the older woman said with a scowl, "but bribe or no bribe, I simply can't let you wander around the grounds without permission from the board. Plus, we're waiting for the insurance adjustor, so now is not the time."

"Have you seen any butterflies around?" Abigail cut in abruptly.

Both Drake and the older woman looked at her like she had grown a second head. The younger woman, however, frowned quizzically. "They're all over," she said. "The big yellow things, right? I thought it was odd, but maybe it's some kind of migratory pattern."

"All over where?" She set the bag down impatiently and met the woman's eyes.

"What's this about?" Drake had his wallet in hand now, but he was frowning at Abigail.

"I saw one on the street earlier. It's abnormal to see them this time of year. I can almost see my breath. It's too cold."

His eyebrows went up, and he glanced up at the sky as if looking for the insects.

"There are half a dozen or so in the building," the younger woman said. "Four stuck on the ladies' room ceiling, and maybe two more in the office. We sometimes get ladybugs swarming this time of year." She was perplexed.

"We'll buy them from you," Drake said decisively. "You don't even have to let us in. Just stick them in a jar with some holes in the lid. I have…" he peered in his wallet. "…a little over two hundred in here right now, but if you have your people call my people, I can arrange a lot more."

"Is this some kind of practical joke?" The older woman bristled. "First you want a tour, now you want butterflies?"

"I…I think I can catch them," the younger woman said. "I just need to get out the stepladder."

Drake pulled out a handful of bills and held them out. There was a moment's hesitation, but in the end it was the older woman who accepted them. "…We'll call it a donation to the general fund," she sighed.

"Be cautious fetching the insects," Abigail told the younger woman as she turned to go in. "It would not do for you to fall and get injured."

Both women vanished into the building, leaving the two Morganians outside a locked door. Drake tucked his wallet away and looked at Abigail. "Horvath told me butterflies were kind of a thing for Sun-Lok. Something about them carrying the souls of the dead to the afterlife."

"You think they're carrying his soul, then?"

"Best lead we've got so far." He shrugs.

"What else do you know about this man?" She sat on the stoop.

"Not a lot. Didn't seem to matter once he was out of the picture. But…" Drake settled next to her. "I did take a peek in the Encantus, out of curiosity, after I talked to Horvath. He was born in the 19th century, early on, but he didn't really join us until 1870-some, and he'd already done some weird stuff to himself."

"Such as?" She crossed her ankles primly and rested her hands in her lap.

"Hard to be sure. Multiple layers of spells, but there's also some reference to him hooking up with a low-level demon."

"I…have never heard of a case in which that has actually occurred before."

Drake shrugged. "The Encantus wasn't very definite, but it seems like his dragon was never a dragon so much as a polymorphic energy monster."

"He must have been very powerful, then."

"Must still be."

She frowned. "…and potentially insane."

They looked at one another worriedly.

"We'll keep him on a tight leash," Drake said after a moment.

"How?" she whispered. "We have no access to our magic."

"Maybe not, but I still have two Swiss bank accounts and 7 million in stock options," he muttered. "Most people in this world are still sane enough to accept a big fat wad of cash."

"That may be," she said, "but if he-"

The door opened, cutting her off. The older woman was carrying two large pickle jars full of yellow butterflies, each the size of a toddler's palm. Behind her, the younger woman was limping.

"You jinxed me," she said to Abigail with a rueful smile. "One of them flew in my face. I think I sprained an ankle."

"I did no such thing!" Abigail took the accusation literally and looked startled and offended. Drake soothed her with a gentle nudge to the shoulder.

"Ssh," he said, then gave the injured lady an apologetic smile and his business card. "Call that number if you end up needing the doctor. I'll cover it."

He reached to take one of the jars, and Abigail stood and took the other.

"Looks like there are nine of the little monsters total," said the older woman. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," Abigail nodded politely.

When the women had gone again, Drake held up his jar and peered inside. The butterflies folded and unfolded their wings fitfully. "Dunno if you're in there, old man," he said, "But I hope you can give us a hand."

* * *

"What's this?" Horvath stared at the kitchen table blankly.

"Breakfast. What does it look like?" Candelario was on his second cup of coffee and his third jelly donut, but he had given his guest the benefit of the doubt where diet was concerned. There were scrambled eggs, thin-sliced bacon, and English muffins laid out on the table, in addition to the box of pastries he himself lived off of.

The Morganian quirked an eyebrow at him, prodded the pile of eggs with the handle of his fork, then gave a slight shrug and took a cautious bite.

"Well?" Candelario scowled at him. "You'd rather I made you pentacle burgers?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought that prompted just the twitch of a smile from the sorcerer. "I wasn't expecting to be fed at all, quite honestly. Not that I object, by any means."

Candelario took that as thanks, grunted quietly, and took another sip of coffee.

They ate in silence, but Horvath carried his dishes to the sink when he was done. "I have errands," he said. "Which I can run on my own, but I expect you to be available when I need you later on."

"…I gotta work. Four to nine tonight."

"Mn. Are your hours regular?" He turned to peer at him over his shoulder.

"Sort of. Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings. I'm semi-retired, you know?"

"If you have vacation time coming, I suggest you take it. I will fetch you from the diner if I want you, and if I come to fetch you, you will do as I say."

"I'm not a genie. I don't pop out of the bottle on command." He kept his tone even despite his annoyance. "Can you give me some idea what your plans are?"

"Well, that depends." Horvath smiled at him. "How are your scruples these days?"

"Could use a tune-up. I don't want to get in trouble with the law. I'm too damn old to go to jail. But give me a hypothetical situation and I'll tell you how I feel about it." He polished off his coffee and joined Horvath at the sink, rinsing out the mug.

"My first order of business will be getting some funds together. My accounts will be long since forfeit, but I have item caches all over the world. I'll make a few black market sales today and tonight. In the meantime, I'd like for you to do a simple background check for me. A private detective will do, but I want the information quickly."

"No problem." Candelario was relieved. "Information I can get you."

"The name is David Stutler." He spelled it slowly, watching Candelario's attentive nodding. "I want a biography, a credit history, and most especially a family tree. If he has living relatives, I want to know where they can be found. The closer the better. Blood relations, mind you. Adopted ones will do me no good."

"Can do. Hell, I bet I can Google half of that."

Horvath's expression was blank. He had had time to catch up with some technology, but the internet was still a little foreign. "…I don't care how you do it, just make sure what you give me is accurate. Incidentally, do you have a car?"

"Uh…I have an '86 Chevy that runs, but it's not really your style, is it?"

"I'm a sorcerer, Candelario. I can make it my style."

"It's across the street." Candelario shrugged and led his guest to the door, pointing out a battered black car through the open doorway.

"It will do. I'll see you when you return from work," Horvath produced a coat out of nowhere and slung it over his shoulder.

"…should I bring dinner?"

"Not from your dismal little diner, no. If you care to stop somewhere less depressing, I like seafood and Italian." He exited the building and crossed the street. As Candelario watched, he took the driver's seat, then laid his hand on the door of the old Chevy. With a shimmer and a watery ripple, it became a sleek, white and silver antique, then started with a deep purr and pulled off down the lane.

Between one thing and another, Horvath had grown a little jealous of Balthazar's '35 Phantom; however, he himself had always been a Bentley man.


	5. Metamorphosis

_This world and these characters still belong to Disney. Although Wizards of the Coast seems to own a piece of Drake. I need to buy those Magic cards._

_This chapter is characterization-heavy, because I like wandering around in fictional peoples' heads._

* * *

"What was the use of this box originally?" Abigail watched as Drake tipped the pickle jars into a table-sized glass tank.

"I had a Burmese python up till about two months ago," he said wistfully. "Big snake. Named him Monty—guess you wouldn't get that joke. He got loose and tried to eat my housekeeper, and…well, I liked the old reptile, but it was him or her, and no one else does the sheets quite right. Donated him to a zoo near Boston."

"You seem inordinately fond of dangerous animals." She smirked, thinking of Inky. "I suppose you have an elephant stashed in the attic, as well. Should we feed them?"

"No elephants, no. Guess we better give them some water, at least." He put the lid on the tank and peered in at the pile of insects. A couple of them were creeping along the branch that had been the previous occupant's sleeping perch, but most were sullen and still. "I'll get something from the kitchen. Don't let 'em out."

"I'm not an idiot." She sat on the floor and placed her palm against the glass.

He left the room, jogging down the staircase to the main floor and the kitchen. Abigail watched the movements in the tank closely, but the butterflies made no sign of being anything other than ordinary insects. She wondered unhappily if they had made a mistake. Spitefully, she said, "I wish he still had the python. You would make a delightful meal for it, I'm sure."

Wings twitched and fluttered. One of the butterflies lifted off the branch and battered against the tank's fine mesh lid. Abigail felt a ringing in her ears. When the voice responded, it was something she felt inside her head, rather than heard with her ears. The inflection was sharp and a little nasal, but there was a depth and resonance to the soundless tone.

_**We have made a meal out of the likes of you, little girl. What do you want?**_

She caught her breath, flinching back from contact with the glass. Laughter echoed through her brain.

"DRAKE!" she shouted.

_**What do you want what do you want you want you want you want?**_ The butterflies rose and fluttered lethargically, cackling.

She covered her ears for a moment, unsettled, then rallied, scowling. "Revenge."

_**Ahhhh.**_ The fluttering grew more organized, a slow spiraling tornado in the center of the tank. _**What will you give?**_

Drake burst through the door with a dishtowel in one hand. "Abby? What the hell happened?"

"They're talking," she said, staring into the tank with narrowed eyes.

**_Pathetic. A girl-child and a painted man. This is what your line comes to? You have no bargain for us._**

This time, Drake flinched when the insects spoke, clearly able to sense the mental transmission. "Who's 'us'?" He asked sharply, coming up to stand behind Abigail, as if for their mutual support. "Is Sun-Lok in there?"

_**We hear you. What do you offer?**_

"How about you behave yourselves or I'll stick you all in the freezer?" The Morganian folded his arms.

**_You are a poor negotiator._**

Abigail watched the insects flutter. They kept colliding, smashing together as if expecting to pass through one another—or to meld into something larger. Each time, they fell back. "You're stuck," she said abruptly. "You can't shape-change any more."

Drake glanced at her, then crouched to peer into the tank better. "You're right. And he called _us_ pathetic. At least we still have opposable thumbs."

The butterflies emitted a low growl, and Drake shot backwards across the room, crashing into a bookshelf. _**The human body was no longer viable. We reabsorbed it. However, our mind and powers are still intact.**_

Abigail didn't move as Drake rolled over and moaned, rubbing his head. He looked a little stunned, but as she saw no blood, she returned her attention to the tank. "We could assist you in regaining a human form. Our talismans were taken by the same man who allowed you to be injured by Blake and the Prime Merlinian."

_**Horvath.**_ The word was spoken slowly and speculatively.

"Horvath," she confirmed. "He is leaching off our magic. If you assist us in regaining it, we will find a way to restore you."

There was a moment of silence, and she added as an afterthought, "Mr. Stone is also quite wealthy. Arrangements can be made."

**_Perhaps. Yes. It seems we may be able to assist one another._**

Drake sat up slowly. His ego was more bruised than his body, but several books and knickknacks had fallen off the shelf around him, and it took him a moment to extricate himself. He eyed the butterflies balefully. "That hurt."

_**Our apologies.**_ There was a slyness to the tone that made it sound utterly insincere.

"Do you require water or food?" Abigail asked them.

They began to alight on the branch in a row. **_Salted water. Sweet fruit._**

"Good." She stood and moved to help Drake up. "We'll attend to it."

Without fully turning her back on the tank, she guided her fellow Morganian from the room. He grumbled a little and closed the door behind them. They went downstairs in silence, but once they entered the kitchen, he pulled away and looked down at her. "You trust those things?"

"Not a whit," she smirked, and went for the fridge. "But you and I are not in a position to argue with them. We cannot be certain what they're vulnerable to."

"A flyswatter?" he suggested, sliding into a seat. "Be a love and get me an ice pack? My head hurts like a motherf—a lot."

She raised an eyebrow, but opened the freezer and dug through the contents. "One does not have to trust someone to find him useful. That they have the power of a sorcerer is obvious. They can run location spells and find Horvath, and they can face him with magic. We need them. Him."

"That's the other thing, though. We have only their word that Sun-Lok's mind is still in there. Could be we're only dealing with what's left of the demon. I don't like that thought."

"Maybe." She put a handful of ice cubes in a dishtowel and tied it off. "But demons may also be outwitted." Coming over to him, she applied the ice to the back of his head, smirking. "Better let me do the witting."

He winced and groaned. "Don't kick a man when he's down, girl."

"The best time to kick someone is when they are unable to retaliate," she countered, but she was fairly gentle as she adjusted the ice pack against his head, and gave him an almost soothing pat on the shoulder.

He grunted and took over holding onto the towel, allowing her to return to what she had been doing before. "So, what's the plan, then?"

She got milk out of the refrigerator and poured herself a glass, then found a couple oranges in his crisper drawer. "Mm. The location ritual is the chief thing. If Horvath has left the area, we want to know how far he has gotten."

"I don't have a lot of ritual gear. I save most of my flash for the stage."

"I find that hard to believe," she sliced the fruit into quarters.

"Nice." He rolled his eyes. "I know a couple stores, though. I can at least get the herbs and graveyard dust-type stuff." He sighed. "And it might be a good idea for us to pick up some news reports. If the zombie wizard apocalypse might still happen, I want to know."

"That…sounds sensible." She agreed, and sipped her milk.

"One last shopping trip, then." He glanced at the clock. "Better wait until tomorrow, though. It's dinnertime. Pizza or Chinese?"

She looked at him blankly a moment. "…perhaps you should decide."

* * *

Upstairs, the glass at one corner of the tank grew slowly wispy and thin, until it was mere translucent strands barely holding any kind of shape. Two of the yellow butterflies passed through it and flitted around the room, inspecting furniture and shelves. On the wall there were framed posters of Drake in mid-performance, a couple Qabbalistic charts, and a small black and white photograph of Alistair Crowley in an absurd-looking hat. On the shelves there were antique novels, classic literary works that had never been cracked open, and a large photobook of London. Knickknacks were expensive but mundane; porcelain, gold, a little black jade.

The butterflies moved on to the next room, a home gym, then down the stairs and past the office to Drake's bedroom. The twisted strips of sheet he had woken tied in still lay on the floor. The insects scanned the bed and the expansive walk-in closet, then crept into the nightstand. There were several pill bottles. Some looked neglected, but the three still in use were marked as antidepressants, anti-anxiety, and sleep aids. Here, too, was his Encantus, shrunk down to pocket size. The two butterflies spent a long time running their antennae over the sleek silvery cover before withdrawing from the room altogether and returning to their fellows.

Once they were back in the tank, the glass re-solidified as if nothing had happened.

* * *

Abigail had liked the pizza. It was decadent, thick with melted cheese and piled with meats and vegetables, but after such a long day she felt a little indulgence was permissible. Drake had plied her with chocolate-marshmallow ice cream for dessert, and laughed when she ate it so fast she got a headache. After a big meal, she was mellow enough to let him have his fun.

He had a guestroom with an attached bath, and after a surreptitious raid on his bookshelves, she was ready to settle in for the night. He left her to her own devices, with the bags of clothing they had bought for her earlier. There were nightshirts and slippers. She was a little perplexed by the pink unicorn pattern on the former, but the material was soft and comfortable, and before long she was sprawled on the bed with a copy of The Scarlet Letter.

She had neither read nor slept in a bed in over three hundred years. The memories of her time in the Grimhold were dim, like fading dreams. There were voices, and she had fancied at times she saw the faces of the dead she had wronged. Once she had heard her former mistress screaming spells, and this was how she knew she had been killed. Balthazar Blake seemed the most likely culprit, but she had no way of knowing for certain. In any case, Felicia would have given as good as she got.

In the Grimhold there had been no movement, no light, and no solid sense of time. Three centuries alone in a cell would have placed intolerable strain on a human being's psyche, but the doll's morphic field had an effect like twilight anesthesia. In some sense, Abigail felt as though she had been released the moment she was imprisoned, and the world had tilted on its axes around her. This was almost too much to bear in and of itself. She turned a page, realized she hadn't really read the previous one, and flipped back.

Hester Prynne stood on the block before the disapproval of the whole town, and refused to name her accomplice in adultery. Abigail shifted uncomfortably at the description. There was no threat of torture or death to the stoic heroine, but the heat of the words seemed to go straight to the reader's chest, as if a letter had been burned there as well as placed on the bodice of Hester's dress.

Abigail didn't truly believe in hell, but she knew well the ramifications of her own mischief, and she wondered if, afterlife or no, she was now, somehow, damned. Over twenty dead, some by the noose, some dead of sickness or melancholy in the prison. And Giles Cory had been crushed under more stones than she could count, bitter with the accusation and execution of the wife he loved.

'More weight' were the last words he uttered, and she had heard those words in person, concealed by magic nearby. She had also heard the death-rattle, and felt as if it was her own hands that had forced the last breath from his chest.

What letter should she be given? W for witch? M for murderess? Neither seemed adequate. She had awoken the devil in her own neighbors, stood back, and watched the show.

She closed the book and set it on the stand by the bed, then leaned back against the pillows. Outside, she could hear the thrum and rattle of traffic far below. It was both disruptive with its foreignness and soothing with its rhythm. The city was full of life; ruthless, reckless, callous life that broke boundaries and trod on the toes of those around it without a second thought. Here, the rich were still coddled and the poor were still fodder for the machine that ground them into dust.

She had for some time believed in the essential absurdity of the world. Believed that if there ever was a God, He had long since abandoned men to their own backbiting. Believed that fairness and justice were pretty but empty ideals, never to be found in reality. But, oh, part of her still wished for some sign that there was meaning somewhere, and every time she looked around, that part of her was disappointed.

That part of her was disappointed in herself, as well.

She folded her hands across her chest and closed her eyes. Bitter or not, this life was all she had, and she was not ready to lose it. There was a fight coming, and the odds were not in her favor. Proper sleep might improve them a little. She did not pray as her body slowly relaxed into oblivion, but she thought about her mistress, and she thought about the Lady Morgana. They were strong. If she could have just a little of their strength, she might yet prevail.

Before long, she had fallen into deep dreams.

* * *

Drake fired up his state-of-the-art laptop on the kitchen table. By his elbow was a beer, but it was unopened as of yet. He was still debating. Most British émigrés found American beer to be woefully inadequate, but Drake had surprisingly undiscriminating taste for a multimillionaire performer. As long as it wasn't 'lite', he'd drink it, and he kept a variety of flavors on hand for company.

Still, it wouldn't do to relax too much. He had two strange sorcerers in his apartment. That one was only fifteen and without her talisman meant little. Abigail struck him as the kind of girl who was perfectly capable of smothering him with a pillow in his sleep, if she so chose and he allowed it to happen. And Sun-Lok was a completely unknown quantity.

He checked his email to find spam, a tacky e-card from a colleague, and a frantic missive from his insurance agent, whose calls he had been avoiding.

_Drake_, it read, _I know it's your schtick, and I've pushed through the big cats, the scorpions, the alligators, and the cobra for you. Also the boiling cauldron, the live electric chair, and the garbage compactor._

Drake grinned. He had thought the electric chair was particularly clever.

_But I just don't see how we can cover you for the metal annealing stunt. It's a huge liability just getting a machine like that outside a factory. It would almost be easier to get a nuclear reactor. If you can give us some kind of idea as to how you plan to make this work, maybe. Or I could try to push through a small pottery kiln?_

_I wish you'd go back to making buses disappear._

_Yrs,_

_Jeffrey_

Drake rubbed the back of his neck. It was all a moot point at the moment, anyway, and he was aware he sometimes got carried away in his quest for a bigger and better trick. Still, he thought his idea of stepping into a metal annealer and coming out five minutes later completely covered in gold was pretty awesome. A pottery kiln wouldn't cut it.

He wrote back, _Jeff! Sorry, on vacation atm but we can discuss in a week or so. Buses are passé. Did seven at once in London twelve years ago. Do you really think we could get a nuclear reactor? Will ask my publicist._

_A magician never reveals his secrets. (:_

_Love,_

_Drake_

He checked his Facebook page next. His PR team had put up some photos of him at a Valentine's party, dressed in red satin and white-gold brocade. The girl on his arm was trying to steal his champagne. He remembered the taste of her glittery lipstick, but had forgotten her name already.

Maybe Abby was right. A new girl for every day of the week had been fun up till now, but he was turning thirty-two this year. Settling down was out of the question, but developing a sense of moderation might not be. A couple steady lady friends, or even a regular date, might be a nice change.

This was all assuming he lived, of course. He felt fine at the moment, which belied Abigail's dire predictions, but it had been less than 48 hours since his ring had been stolen. He rubbed his bare hand. There was a shallow groove in the skin where the ring normally lay, and it ached, as if there were a bone-deep bruise hidden there. He wondered if Abigail felt the loss of her pentacle as keenly.

If he got his power back, he could go on as he had left off. The girl, however, was in a different position. No family, no home, and only a rudimentary understanding of the modern world. Uneasily, he wondered if she expected to stay with him. Financially he could manage that, but it would raise a host of social questions and the paperwork would be hell.

Suddenly, he felt vastly more attached to bachelorhood. He cracked open the beer bottle and began to run a Google search for nude pictures of female celebrities.


	6. The Best Laid Plans

_Disclaimer, etc. This chapter ran long, I felt, but I went running with Candelario and then felt like the Merlinians needed some time, and didn't get to Drake and Abby until 2800 words in or so. Also, don't anyone fret about Becky's absence. She's just in classes; she'll be around. And stick with me. I'm building up to some action sequences here._

* * *

Horvath scanned the printout rapidly, frowning in thought. "Yes. Yes, this is adequate."

Candelario gave a little sigh of relief. He wasn't sure what the consequences of inadequate might have been. "You want the garlic bread?" He pushed a takeout container at the man across the table from him.

"Mm?" Horvath absently took a piece and nibbled. It was cold, having sat for an hour, but tasted good. He flipped the page of Candelario's report. Most of it was printed from various internet sources, with a few handwritten notes at the end. There was one news article, with an appended photograph.

'Local boy awarded national science scholarship', read the headline. Beneath it a slender, dark-haired child was being hugged by a plump woman with similar coloring. The house behind them had seen better days, but the yard was sunny and neatly-kept.

"'All mothers think their sons are geniuses,'" Horvath read aloud, "'but Dianne Stutler has a certificate to prove it.' Well. How adorable. There's no mention of a father. I presume the boy was illegitimate."

"Well, he weren't no virgin birth," Candelario shrugged. "But you got at least one blood relative there."

"Yes, and the closest one possible, at that. 842 Four Oaks Lane, White Plains, New York," he read Candelario's scrawl at the bottom of the page. "Your penmanship is atrocious, by the way."

"You're welcome." Candelario wasn't especially offended. He had already pawned the gold watch for over four thousand dollars. Courtesy didn't pay the bills, but cash did. "What's the next step?"

"The ritual I have in mind will need a large space, and it may be volatile." Horvath set the crust of garlic bread aside and dusted off his hands on a paper napkin. His manners were an odd conglomeration of modern upper-class delicacy and medieval pragmatism, which meant he used his hands often, but swirled the wine in his glass and inhaled the bouquet before sipping. "I would prefer to do it on the spot at Ms. Stutler's own place, but that will require a bit of pre-planning and casing the joint, so to speak."

"Okay." Candelario stood and gathered dishes. "You expect me to do the casing?"

"No, you won't know what I'm looking for. Likewise, I'll have to do the packing. I do expect you to assist in the actual venture, of course."

He hesitated. "…which involves what, exactly? I told you, I'm too old to go to jail."

"That would require getting caught, which we won't be. If it's done right, she won't remember a thing."

He relaxed a little. "So no killing or…?"

Horvath raised an eyebrow. "Are you actually concerned for the woman's safety? You do realize you're helping to assist me in a coup that will eventually decimate the world's population of nonmagical human beings and render the survivors into mindless serfs?"

Candelario supposed when you put it that way there was no point being squeamish, so he just shrugged and began rinsing the plates.

Horvath watched him intently for a long moment, as if trying to read his thoughts. "I knew your grandfather," he said at length.

"Figured you knew most of my family, at least a little."

"Yes, in passing. But Antonio and I were…mm. Friends isn't the right word, and allies doesn't quite cover it. Partners, perhaps." He rubbed his chin. "I liked him. He was the sort of man who would squeeze the last drop out of whatever life had to offer. And he never hesitated when he wanted something."

"Never met him. He died before I was born." Candelario peered over his shoulder at Horvath.

"I'm just wondering how his seed sprouted a vegetable like yourself."

"Nice metaphor. How long did it take you to come up with it?" He reached for a dishtowel.

"You're lukewarm, Niccolo. In some ways that makes you more useful than a fanatic, I suppose, but I'd love to know where you stand. What is it you want?"

"Money, liquor, and a nice piece of ass?" He smirked to himself. "You don't get me because you can't settle for anything normal. That's the problem with all you sorcerers. Ideology doesn't pay the bills, or put food on the table. Look at me, man. I'm eighty-six years old. I got a shitty car, a flat in a bad neighborhood, and enough savings to keep me out of bankruptcy provided I work at least 25 hours a week."

"Do you not see the humor in complaining to me about your age?" Horvath rested his chin in his hand, dark eyes opaque.

"Yeah, well, you don't have arthritis or hardening of the arteries." He rolled his eyes. "You know what your problem is?"

"Oh, do tell me my problem."

"Your problem is you decided normal people were a waste of space over a thousand years ago, so you've been ignoring them ever since. You haven't paid attention to anyone outside your clique in so long you forgot what real people are like. You don't know what it's like to hold down a nine-to-five job, pay taxes, apply for Medicare. You don't know how to raise a pair of kids alone after their mother kicks the bucket. You don't know what it's like to have to scrape together enough cash to bury your father in a pine box after he hangs himself because every penny he's got is gone and his source of income just got locked up in a wooden doll. You don't know shit." Candelario paused for breath, having worked himself up more than he had realized he would. He cleared his throat and eyed Horvath's face warily.

The ancient Morganian's eyebrows were both raised. He was silent for a moment, then said, "I was unaware. I suppose I've been out of touch a few decades. You blame me, then?"

He sighed. "Lotta people died after the stock market crashed. I could blame you, I could blame Blake. It doesn't matter now."

"I encourage you to blame Balthazar. In that case, I can provide you with vengeance."

Candelario shook his head. "Thanks, but I don't want his head on my mantle or nothing. Doesn't match the décor." He sobered. "Let me put it this way. You give me a sorcerer, either side, and I'll hold him down while you kick him in the balls. But I don't beat up on civilians, especially women, whether they're the Prime Merlinian's mom or not. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite, given the whole Rising thing, but I've been called worse."

Horvath smiled, a glint of dark amusement in his eyes. "Thank you. That, I can work with."

Feeling as though a bullet had been dodged, Niccolo nodded and put the dishes in the cabinet. After a moment, he added, "So when this decimation thing happens…I got a few grandkids…"

"You want them spared or targeted?"

"Geez. Spared." He winced.

"One never knows." Horvath shrugged. "I'll make a note of it."

"I got a son-in-law you can put down for mindless serf, though." He grinned impishly, and Horvath snorted with laughter.

* * *

"Okay." Dave stared at the spell schematic on the table in front of him. "Explain to me again why this ritual won't work?"

Balthazar was pacing the Merlin Circle on the turnabout floor, still limping slightly, but it was Veronica who answered, leaning across the table to pick up Dave's Encantus. "Because," she said, "All seeking rituals have to have parameters. Otherwise, there's no control on the feedback you get. Too much information dumped into your mind can be incredibly painful, even crippling."

"Like running Google with the safesearch option turned off. I get that." He gestured absently with one hand, "But why can't we adjust the parameters?"

"We can," Balthazar put in. "But Horvath is a special case. Remember, he's been around for as long as I have, and there were times we were hunting for one another in a deadly serious way. And not only us, but our various colleagues, over the centuries. If either of us were vulnerable to simple divining rituals, we'd both be dead by now."

"So there's some kind of shielding spell? Like you put on the Grimhold?"

"Not quite. A shielding spell can be tracked, too, and sometimes it's easier than tracing an unshielded person because it raises a red flag that says there's something underneath the shield that someone's trying to hide. What I've always used, and what I assume he uses as well, is more like camouflage. Wherever I go, I make sure whatever energy I emanate blends with the surrounding natural currents. Ley lines aren't something I've gone over with you yet, but we'll get there."

"We've got this, though…" Dave picked up the hat they had gathered from Battery Park after the chaos. "Won't that help? Since he wore it so long?"

"Not really," Veronica took over again. "It has a trace of his magical signature, but if he's deliberately blending his natural signature with the energies of wherever he's gone, the result we'll get back is that he's right here." She tapped the crown of the hat. "Which he's not."

"Like running a Google search for 'Google'," Balthazar clarified, with a smirk.

"I can see forever." Dave rolled his eyes. "So what do we do?"

The two older Merlinians exchanged a look. After a moment, Balthazar said slowly, "The thing is, I doubt he's left Manhattan. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that I've left loose ends."

"Such as…?" Dave folded up the schematic, feeling uncomfortable.

"Maxim's not the only Morganian in this city, especially not after the Grimhold was opened. He had his little protégé, and he released Sun-Lok and Abigail Williams." Balthazar rubbed the back of his neck and sat on the steps.

Veronica stepped over him and sat behind him, hands on his shoulders as if to give him support. "Maxim was also familiar with the ritual Morgana began. The Rising. I don't think he has the power to complete it himself, but there are ways around that sort of thing."

"But Sun-Lok was pretty much exploded, right? And Drake and the little girl…how much trouble could they be?" While Dave had a certain respect for Drake, who had, after all, kicked his butt when they first met, he realized that his own power level and expertise had increased multifold since that encounter and thought he might actually like another shot.

"Maxim had both Stone's and Abigail's talismans," Balthazar said. "Which means they're either dead or powerless at the moment. I'm not losing much sleep there, although it's wise to always take an enemy seriously. As for Sun-Lok…he's not easy to kill. Believe me, I tried twice. Three times, if you count the other week."

Dave gulped quietly. "So how worried are we about him?"

"On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a four. Maxim's an eight. But we can't ignore either threat, because in both cases, you're the one they'll be looking for."

"Me?" Dave's eyes widened. "I mean…I guess I did sort of…"

"You damaged Sun-Lok's demon, you destroyed Morgana, and most importantly, you haven't learned to hide as well as we have." Balthazar smiled grimly.

"Which is why you should look that spell over," Veronica was more cheerful, pointing to the open Encantus. The schematic she settled on was the most complicated Dave had yet seen.

"Uh…how much time do I have to—oh, God. Balthazar, what about Becky?" He clutched the book in sudden alarm. "Horvath knows where she works, maybe where she lives!"

"I've done some protection spells," Veronica soothed. "If anything threatens her, we'll know at once."

"Horvath's not above using hostages," Balthazar said, "but I'm betting on him being focused on you, not Becky. And Veronica's right, that spell you're looking at is your best bet for hiding…if that's what you prefer to do."

Dave glanced down at the spell, then back up. "You want me to be bait?"

"I want you to recognize you're part of a war." Balthazar's eyes narrowed. "And decide accordingly what strategy you prefer. We can duck and cover, we can go on the offensive, or we can set a trap."

The Prime Merlinian met his Master's eyes for a long moment, reminded of one of their earlier arguments. _You think I've been teaching you magic tricks for some little girl's tea party?_ Balthazar seemed almost bipolar sometimes, going from protective guardian to ruthless general at the drop of a hat. Just when Dave thought he could follow the older man's thoughts, he got lost in the sea of memories, flashpoints, and motivations.

"Balthazar," Veronica's voice was soft and a little dismayed. "He's just a boy."

He broke the locked gaze with his student and tilted his head back to give her a bittersweet smile and a shake of his head. "No, angel. He's not."

Dave looked down at the Encantus again and closed it slowly. "Okay," he said. "I like the bait thing—well, no, I don't _like_ it, but it makes sense. I think we should do that. But I don't want to wait around for Horvath, either. I mean, he might get more friends together or find a time machine or something, I don't know. There must be things he'll need if he's going to do the Rising again, right? Especially if he needs more power than he's got." He looked at them for confirmation, and thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Balthazar's lips.

"Morgana's power level, like Merlin's, transcended the scales we know," Veronica said. "There were suggestions that both were either part-demon, part-fae, or in some other fashion divinely influenced. Horvath, whatever else he may be, is all human."

"So he'll definitely be looking for a power source?"

"At the very least. A large Summoning, maybe, which will also cost him a lot of energy." Balthazar placed his hand over Veronica's.

"…didn't you say a minute ago that Sun-Lok had a demon?" Dave frowned.

"The dragon, yes. I doubt it was very high level, but…hell." Balthazar's eyebrows twitched. "If it's still intact, it would be ideal as a battery. He might go for that."

"Well, we can track _it_, right?" Dave broke into a grin.

Balthazar looked approving. "Absolutely. It might be a long shot, but definitely worth the attempt."

"Well, all right, then!" The apprentice unfolded the schematic, just a hint of smugness dancing around the edges of his smile.

* * *

"Balthazar…" Veronica plucked gently at his sleeve and guided him around a corner. Dave was too engrossed in his research to notice.

The ancient Merlinian followed willingly, slipping his hand into his lover's. "Something wrong?"

She pursed her lips. "Maybe. Yes." She slipped into Welsh, speaking softly and uncertainly, "Don't you think you're putting a little too much pressure on David? He's so young. When we were that age, we were still learning combat spells."

He smiled, remembering. "Yes, and you set fire to Rhodri's haycart. Master had to pay for the damages."

She blushed and elbowed him, half amused, half annoyed. "That's not what I'm getting at. He's not a soldier. He's a scholar."

"Veronica…_I _wasn't a soldier, either." He brushed a lock of hair out of her face, handling her as if he feared she'd shatter like glass before his eyes.

She lowered her gaze. "I gave my life to the fight so that other men and women would have the chance to lead free lives. To be farmers and artists and mothers."

"The world is full of farmers and artists and mothers," he said quietly. "You didn't sacrifice in vain." He sighed. "But the world is also, still, full of soldiers, and it needs to be."

"I'm sorry," she leaned against him. "I guess I still have doubts, even after all this time."

"The Prime Merlinian was predestined to destroy Morgana. You accepted Master Merlin's word on that when we were young."

"I didn't like it then, either. What we've become, we became willingly. I was a runaway, you were an orphan, Maxim was—"

"Let's not talk about Maxim."

She nodded. "But David doesn't have much choice, does he?"

"Destiny is like that." He rested his cheek against her hair.

"You could be gentler with him. He wants to please you."

He closed his eyes, wounded by the indirect accusation. "He does, but ultimately it's not me he needs to prove himself to. I've told him that all along. He needs to know what he has within him, and he needs to value it. When I'm demanding, I'm demanding because I know it only makes it sweeter when he realizes he can do all I ask of him and more."

"You've changed," she said. "You've been running for hundreds of years and I've been standing still." She realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she'd said the wrong thing. His grip on her tightened desperately.

"I'm not the man you knew," he said, the dispassionate words belying the tremor in his voice. "And you have no obligation to me."

"Balthazar! That's not what I meant!" she scolded. "I will always, always love you. I was only wondering when you'd gotten so wise."

He looked down at her, bewildered, and she took the opportunity to kiss his cheek. "You need to shave, though," she added.

He smiled, tension easing. "You give me too much credit. And you're right. I'll go make myself presentable."

"I never said you weren't presentable." She pulled him down into a deep kiss, and he was amazed at how quickly the hurt and fear went away.

It would take time to find his place with her again, but find it he would.

* * *

Abigail woke from a restless sleep filled with soft fluttering sounds and the gleam of gold. In her mind, Sun-Lok's butterflies had had wings covered with blinking eyes, and they had all been watching her. It took her a few minutes to shake loose of the weird dreams, and for a while she stood by the window, staring at the traffic below, and the towering buildings overhead.

When she noticed the time was well past ten, she dressed hurriedly and went looking for Drake. He was not in his bedroom. The bed looked much like it had the day before, but the nightstand drawer was open. She spied the Encantus within and pulled it out. Her own was long gone, of course, and obtaining a new one would be difficult. She enlarged the book and opened it, on a whim, searching for an entry on her host.

_Drake Stone_, it read. _Born Daniel Jacob Gladstone, London, 1978. Morganian. 258__th__ degree._

She peered at the illustration. It depicted a younger and rather humbler version of the man she knew, hair unbleached, eyes unlined, and with clothing consisting of ripped trousers, boots, and a t-shirt with an armadillo printed on the front. There was something of insecurity in the pose, shoulders hunched, eyes averted.

He must loathe this picture, she realized. It said more about him than he wanted anyone to know. She scanned the remainder of the page, finding that while Drake had barely reached the degree of the average adept, and had never taken a student, his innovations in illusion and glamour were both unique and well above the level of what he should have been able to accomplish. Clearly whatever else he was, he was focused when he had reason to be.

Turning further back in the book, she passed by her own entry without reading, then located Sun-Lok's.

_Sun-Lok. Aliases unknown. Birthdate unknown. Birthplace unknown (possibly Yunan province, China?) Morganian. Degree unknown…_

She frowned. Degree unknown? Surely a magical book that could update itself must have some mechanism for measuring the skill and power of those who were connected with it, whether they willed or no. She flipped to her entry and found her own degree listed as 263rd, then turned back to Sun-Lok's.

_Degree unknown. Sun-Lok presented himself to Maxim Horvath on the 20th of March, 1872, in Java, offering his allegiance in exchange for Morganian knowledge and a seat of power should Morgana succeed in rising again. He was briefly assigned as Horvath's apprentice, but it was a mere formality as Sun-Lok's knowledge was already impressive. After only two months of work, they parted ways, and Sun-Lok was not seen again for some years._

_When he reemerged, he was seen to have made an alliance with a polymorphic monster or demon known variously by the names Beleth, Bine, Typhon, or Pa She. Whether the being is truly any of these mythic characters or whether it has simply taken names out of preexisting folklore is unknown._

_In 1897, Sun-Lok became a prominent leader in the Righteous Harmony Society, promising his followers invincibility to match his own. He led multiple raids against both Chinese and foreign missions in Shangxi and became notable for encouraging sexual abuse of female victims before their deaths, and for feeding the remains of executed prisoners to dogs._

Abigail reread the last line twice, then slowly shut the book and returned it to its place in the drawer. She was aware that the Morganian ethos placed no limit on the degree and type of cruelty that could be perpetrated against an enemy, particularly in the execution of ritual or celebration. On the other hand, her own teacher, Felicia, had been a pragmatist with a set of lines that she did not care to cross. She did not promote torture, and as a woman, rape was abhorrent to her.

Who was this man, Sun-Lok? By the Encantus' account, he sought only power, and wallowed in human suffering. Evil was the word that came to mind, but what right had she to apply it? He was not, after all, the only butcher, not the only torturer, probably not even the only rapist, in the Morganian line. By some measurements, her own history was nearly as heinous.

Abigail was uncomfortable with moral ambiguity.

After a moment, she got up and wandered down the hall. She found Drake on the couch in the living room, out cold with the television running an advert for some sort of cooking device. There was an empty beer bottle on the floor. She sighed and prodded him in the side. "Wake up. We've both overslept."

He moaned, stirred, and started to sit up. "Abby? Wha' time is…oh god my head." Sinking back he clutched at his temples. "Why is it so bright?"

She picked up the bottle and looked it over. Part of her wanted to hit him over the head with it. They couldn't afford this kind of delay. "Idiot. How many of these did you have?"

"Only the one," he moaned. "That's nothing. I shouldn't have a hangover from one bloody PBR—ow!"

She set the bottle aside as he cringed and clutched at his own wrist. "It's the spell," she said grimly, and sat next to him. "Let me see your hand."

He let her take him by arm. The place on his finger where his ring had once sat was turning an ugly, cyanotic blue. "That's not a good sign," she touched the skin and felt him twitch, in pain.

"Feels cold," he seemed to be able to sit up straight now, but he squinted against the light and looked a little groggy. "How come you're holding up?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe because I wore my talisman on a chain instead of on my finger."

"My master told me if I ever took it off, he'd break my hand." Drake mumbled. "So, you know, I don't."

She glanced at him, remembering the image in the Encantus, then sighed. "Well, we have to keep moving. It'll only get worse if we don't get to Horvath soon. What sort of painkillers do you keep around?"

"I have aspirin and stuff in the bathroom cabinet. I'll get it. Might be better if I didn't drive, though. We're going somewhere, right? Give me a moment, I'll remember." He got up unsteadily, but once he started moving, he seemed to improve.

"Magic shop," she reminded him. "You said you knew a couple places."

"Right. Let me wash up, then I'll call a cab."

"I'll make you toast. You need to eat." To her it was merely a practical statement, but he gave her a grin over his shoulder.

"You're too good to me. Let's make tracks now and we'll stop for lunch after."

She rolled her eyes. "If you insist. Hurry up."

"Yes, mother."

She threw a couch pillow after him, but he was already out of reach, down the hall.


	7. Clash

_Still owned by Disney._

_A note on spelling, because I have noticed I'm not being perfectly consistent: I own the SA junior novelization, and in it, the magic book is spelled Encantus (as opposed to Incantus, which is actually what it sounds like they're saying in the film, but anyway…), which is the spelling I've used here. However, Balthazar and his ilk are referred to as Merlinean, which I've here changed to Merlinian. Because it looks better to me._

* * *

The occult shop Drake directed the cab to was at the edge of the Village; not far, in fact, from where the Arcana Cabana had once sat, though neither of the Morganians were aware of this. Above the doorway a cracked signboard read 'Psychic-Magic-Alternative-Novelties', with an image of the Vitruvian man on one end, his groin censored with a yellow smiley face. The interior was labyrinthine, overheated, and smelled strongly of incense and dust.

Drake seemed to know the proprietor, a brown-skinned elderly man with large glasses and a facial tic. They talked quietly across the counter, while Abigail peered into a cluttered display case. There were crystals, jewelry, and bones of various animals, some painted with sigils she barely recognized.

"So, graveyard dust," Drake was saying, "probably at least 6 ounces. About the same amount of High John, and if you've got the blood around…"

"Naw, man." The shop owner shook his head. "There's not enough call for it to keep it in stock. I can get you a live lamb by morning, or you can visit a butcher and make do with pork or chicken blood."

"I don't do my own slaughtering." Drake grimaced. "Honestly, it's bad enough to have to use the stuff in the first place. Recommend a butcher?"

"MacGillicuddy's, two blocks over. What about salt? Equipment?"

"I always keep kosher salt around, and I still have the dagger I bought off you last year. But that's a good point, I'd better run it through the wash."

"Holy water?"

"Please." He flashed a winning smile.

As the man turned away to fetch the requested items, Drake turned to Abigail. "See anything you like?"

She shrugged, feeling a little dizzy thanks to the thick atmosphere. "I like the shells. I had a collection of shells when I lived in Barbados. A ship's captain even gave me a few he brought from Africa, once."

"I get seasick," he leaned over the counter, craning his neck to see what she was looking at. "Never have been big on the ocean."

"That's a shame. We're close, here, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but you don't want to go swimming here, trust me. Not in the ocean, or the Hudson."

"I can't swim." She raised an eyebrow at him. "I wasn't allowed to learn. Some of the Carib knew how, but it wasn't well thought of where I grew up."

"Yeah, I guess that doesn't work so well with eight layers of dress on. I pretty much only dog-paddle, myself."

"If we survive this," she said slowly, keeping her voice down, "would you be willing to take me to Salem? I don't ask that you act as my keeper forever, but it would be safer than teleporting, and I think perhaps I should…pay my respects, before I begin a new life."

He tilted his head, studying her thoughtfully. "Not sure quite what you mean by that, Abby, but why don't we cross that bridge once we've got our magic back?"

She met his eyes, her own gaze searching, then nodded. "Fair enough."

He gave her an awkward smile, and she noticed there were faint dark circles under his eyes. The Parasite Spell was taking its toll. "Give me a little money," she said. "There's a shop across the street. I'll fetch us something to drink."

"Huh?" He peered out the window at the café, then pulled out his wallet. "You know the money system?"

"I've been watching. I don't understand the little cards yet, but the paper money is simple enough." She accepted a twenty from his hand and tucked it into her pocket. "I won't be long."

"Yeah, well, you're a girl. You'll figure out credit cards and shopping soon enough." He smirked. "Don't get run over."

She wasn't sure what to make of this commentary, so she turned and left the building, waiting for a lull in traffic before jogging across the road. The café was more of a coffee shop and student hangout, half-full of college students eating scones and lattes drizzled with caramel. It all smelled delectable, and her stomach grumbled as she wandered up to the counter, scanning the menu. Much of the language was foreign, and she was struggling to decipher it when she felt a prickle at the back of her neck.

Turning around, she felt her gaze drawn to a young woman in the corner of the shop. She was seated behind a stack of textbooks, likely having been caught in the midst of studying, but now she was staring at Abigail with muted horror. With a sudden rush of anxiety, the young Morganian recognized Becky Barnes, who she had forcibly abducted for Horvath only a few days ago.

Their eyes met for a moment, then Becky made a sudden lunge for the door, almost bowling over a male student who was trying to come in. Abigail darted after her. Presumably the girl was in contact with the Merlinians. _They must not learn what she and Drake were up to._

The two girls raced across the street and up a nearby alley, Becky trying desperately to get to the bicycle she had left chained to a low fence. She was longer-legged and quicker than Abigail, but the young witch caught up as she grappled with the bike lock, grabbing for her wrists.

Becky elbowed her in the chest, and she stumbled back with a wheeze of pain. That had hurt more than it should have. The absence of her talisman left her weak, and she clutched the front of her shirt, glowering.

For a moment, the two girls stared one another down, then Becky slowly reached for her cell phone.

"I don't think so." Drake appeared on the opposite side of the fence, having circled around through the occult shop's rear entrance. He grabbed Becky's wrist and squeezed just hard enough to make her drop the phone. "Let's all just stay calm," he added as she turned and tried to twist free. "This doesn't have to get violent."

Becky aimed a kick at Drake's crotch, but fortunately for him, the fence was in the way. "What do you two want?" she growled. "It's over. Morgana's dead."

This, more than the elbow to the sternum, make Abigail feel lightheaded. "Morgana's dead?" she repeated faintly. It had been the most logical conclusion all along, but somehow she had held out a faint hope.

Drake's brows knit with concern over the girl's reaction, and his grip must have loosened slightly, because Becky suddenly managed to jerk free and tried to shove past Abigail, back up the alley.

Something snapped. The witch-girl swayed, tensed, and tackled the escaping blonde, sending them both tumbling into a pile of recycling. Becky gave a shriek and tried to punch the girl pinning her down, while Abigail in turn grabbed a handful of hair and pulled back hard.

"Wh—wait, what are…!" It wasn't that Drake was opposed to catfights, but the sudden mutual ferocity of the two young women threw him for a loop. He scrambled over the fence, but hesitated to try and separate them physically. "Girls! Ladies! You're going to break something!"

Reaching for the first opportunity he saw, he grabbed Becky by the ankle, then looked up as more shapes appeared in the alley mouth.

"Let her go right now," said a young male voice that shook with rage, "or I'm gonna find out what color your intestines are." The beginnings of a plasma bolt glittered in the ringless hand of the Prime Merlinian.

Drake did the only thing he could do. He let go and held up both hands.

The struggle between the two girls halted, and they stared at one another, panting. Glancing over at Drake, Abigail slowly released her grip on Becky's hair, but her eyes were still feverishly bright, her system coursing with adrenaline.

"Hey," he said quietly, "breathe. It's over."

"Dave?" Becky's voice was unsteady. "I'm okay. Get her off me."

It was not Dave that strode down the alley first, but Balthazar Blake. His gimlet gaze was focused on Abigail, and it was this more than Drake's attempt at reassurance that caused her to scramble off of the prone Becky and flatten herself against the fence. She looked like a rabbit cornered by an angry dog, and despite years of enlightened self-interest, Drake shifted slowly to intervene, putting himself between Blake and Abby.

"Look," he began, "it's not what it looks like."

Balthazar paused to refocus on him, and behind him, Dave and Veronica hurried down the alley to help Becky to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" Dave smoothed the mussed hair anxiously.

"I'm okay. I'm fine. I just…I was trying to do my ethics paper," she said lamely. "Ow…that kind of stings."

Veronica placed a reassuring hand on Becky's shoulder, but her eyes were on the confrontation by the fence.

"If it's not what it looks like," Balthazar said slowly, "then what is it?" His tone was mild, but threat dripped from every syllable.

"She was just going to get me a cup of joe," he tried a smile, realized quickly it wouldn't fly, and sobered again.

"You killed her," Abigail's voice was leaden.

Both Dave and Balthazar looked at her.

"Is it true?" she asked. "Is Lady Morgana really gone for good?"

Dave pulled Becky protectively closer. "I didn't have much choice. It was that or die." He looked uncomfortable.

Abigail glowered at him, past both Drake and Balthazar. She said nothing, but the flash of hatred in her eyes was impossible to ignore.

"Let me rephrase my original question," said Balthazar icily. "What. Were. You. Doing?"

"We weren't after her!" Drake gestured tightly at Becky. "Why would we be after her? That's not revenge, that's just stupid. We were at the shop, Abby went to get us a couple drinks, ran into Blondie here, next thing I know they're on the ground wrestling, but, hey, women, right? What're you gonna do?"

He cowered slightly as the eyes of Becky, Veronica, and Abigail all turned to him. "Not…that I'm trying to say…uh…"

Dave rolled his eyes, but Balthazar's stony expression did not change. "I see. And what were you doing at an occult shop?"

Drake rallied. "Collecting information. We were left out of the loop for the last battle. Just trying to get our bearings. So, now we know the whole nasty business is over, we can just pick up the pieces of our lives and move on, yeah? No harm no foul?"

"You _did_ try to kill me," Balthazar pointed out quietly. "And regardless of your intent this time, Miss Williams has kidnapped Rebecca, here, before."

"Collateral damage?" Drake shrugged weakly. "We were under orders from Horvath. Very persuasive man."

"I'm sure. Whose orders are you under this time?"

Abigail spoke up abruptly, "Not Horvath's, if that's what you're implying. If Morgana's dead, he should be, too."

Balthazar turned back to her. "If you're trying to hide that you're both missing your talismans, there's no point. I've already seen that Maxim has them. So my question is whether you're being blackmailed, bound, or drained."

Drake slumped a little. He had hoped their unarmed state would not be noticed. On the other hand…he looked at Blake's face. The fact that they were unarmed might be the only thing keeping him from blowing them off the face of the earth then and there. "Drained. We're looking for him," he said quietly. "All we want is a chance to get our own back. Will you let us go now?"

Blake smiled. "My heart bleeds for you, truly. Tell me, why would you think that a man who betrayed his own oathbound master, not to mention his two oldest and closest friends, would be loyal and fair to _you_, his underlings?"

"Well…look," Dave seemed to be recovering from his scare, "if we let you go in order to go tracking Horvath down and you don't get killed, and you do get your rings back, how do we know you're not going to then turn around and stab us in the back?"

"You don't," Abigail said sepulchrally.

Drake shot her a reproving look, but Balthazar's ring hand moved, and he turned back hurriedly. "Hang on! Hang on! What if we give you some information? Hm? Work together?"

Indecision flickered across the old Merlinian's face. Veronica moved around Dave and Becky to stand next to her lover, slipping her arm through his. "I think," she said, "you should tell us everything you know, as a sign of good faith." Her expression and tone were far gentler than Balthazar's, but somehow Drake got the impression there was an iron hand in the velvet glove.

Behind him, Abigail tried to straighten her clothes and hair, then moved up to stand next to him, an unconscious echo of the paired-off Merlinians. "I have no further interest in attacking Miss Barnes," she said. "It was an impulse, and unworthy of me. I apologize." The last two words clearly cost her, and Becky still looked skeptical.

Drake wet his lips, glanced at Abigail, then said, "I know the man who runs this place." He jerked his head at the shop next to them. "He takes consignments, and he buys when something good comes along. He just told me, he says, yesterday a stocky white guy with dark hair came in, carrying a cane with a blue crystal, and sold him a bunch of amulets and a cut-all dagger."

Balthazar's eyebrows went up. "Did he buy anything?"

"I didn't get that yet. I had to come see the girlfight." Drake gave a twitchy, uncertain smile.

The Merlinian rubbed his chin and nodded. "Okay. Let's go see what else he has to say."

* * *

Abigail was silent as Balthazar questioned the shop owner, and remained silent as they all returned to the alley to retrieve Becky's bike. Drake, by contrast, was chatty and unctuous, keenly aware that whatever the Merlinians chose to do with them, they were in no position, at the moment, to resist.

"So, the stuff he bought," he asked Balthazar, "cochineal? Cinnabar and myrrh? Mean anything to you?"

"Yes," Blake answered tersely, but didn't elaborate.

"…right. Okay. Because if it didn't, I know some other places around town he might've tried to sell to or buy from."

"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind." It was almost a monotone.

Weary of the game, Abigail spoke at last. "Are you going to kill us or not?"

All four of their enemies developed varying expressions of discomfort.

"At the moment," Blake said, "you're not worth the trouble. But I haven't lived as long as I have by underestimating the opposition." He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "So this is what we'll do: every move you make against Horvath, you will consult us first. We will find him as a group and defeat him as a group. Provided you behave yourselves, I will then return your talismans and undo the curse that's killing you, after which you will both submit to a contract that allows us to monitor and limit your magical activity. Ten years' probation."

"Limit how much?" Drake frowned. "I have a career, you know."

"You'll have to clear new tricks with me first," he said, "but since I'm such a huge fan of performance art, I'm sure we'll agree fine."

"That's it?" Abigail wasn't sure whether to trust the offer.

"The Grimhold's done," he said. "Even if it were still a viable prison, we're as sick of the goddamn thing as you are. Do _you_ think a 300 year sentence is enough for what you did?"

She avoided his eyes. "I was not requesting further punishment, but I am always wary of owing favors."

"As you should be," he said grimly. "Go home, rest and eat. You both look terrible. Any hint of betrayal on your part will be met without mercy, but there's no point in letting you die of exhaustion. I'll contact you tonight, once we have a plan."

"So now we're under orders from you," Drake watched them, rubbing his sore hand.

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

Abigail answered, "No. Your terms are acceptable. We'll wait for your call."

"Good." He smiled, tipped his hat, and turned to go. Dave and Becky followed at once, wheeling the bicycle between them, but Veronica gave the two Morganians a thoughtful look and a slight nod before making a graceful exit.

Once they were gone, Drake ran shaky fingers through his hair. "That could have gone worse."

"True," she agreed with a humorless smile. "But it's a dangerous game. We're in a bad position."

"They still don't know we've got Sun-Lok," he pointed out.

"Nor does he know we have them," she said. "I recommend we keep it that way."

"Keep a foot in either camp?" he asked.

"Yes. I don't trust him."

"What about them?"

"They're _Merlinians_. They'll keep their word. But I don't care much for their terms."

"Do we have a plan?" He offered her his arm.

She accepted, still feeling a little lightheaded. "I think we'll have to work things out as they come."

"Spontaneity! I love it." His voice lacked the gusto with which he would normally have delivered such a statement.

"Mm. Let's get another pizza. And ice cream." She tugged on his elbow gently.

The ploy worked. He broke into a grin. "Warming up to the 21st century, Abby?"

"Maybe a little. Stop calling me that." She hid a smile.

* * *

"Do you trust them, Balthazar?" Even as they returned to the turnaround, Dave was still hovering over Becky like a concerned mother hen. She would have bruises, and her scalp ached from the hair-pulling, but there was no lasting physical harm.

"In the sense that I believe they're being honest with us? Of course not. But I've learned, over the past thirteen centuries, that very few people are evil for evil's sake. Everyone has motivations. Learn those motivations, and you can predict a person's actions with reasonable accuracy." Balthazar hunted around on one of the tables until he found a small bottle of aspirin, and came over to offer it to Becky.

"Thanks," she smiled weakly. "I'll be okay." She accepted the bottle nonetheless.

"I'll get you a glass of water," Veronica volunteered, and swept up the stairs.

Dave squeezed her shoulder gently. "So…we're working with them why, then?"

"Because at the moment, their major motivation is to live. And I'm always reluctant to deny that." He sighed and sat down, looking tired.

"What about Maxim's motivations?" Veronica returned with a water bottle from the fridge, and sat next to Becky.

"I've had centuries to consider those, and I'm still not sure I understand perfectly," Balthazar answered.

Becky gulped a couple aspirin and eyed her anxious boyfriend and the comforting posture of the Merlinian sorceress. "…I really am okay, you guys. She just freaked me out, especially the first time. I mean…the red glowing eyes, and the things she said…but she's just a kid, isn't she?"

"She's precocious." Balthazar shook his head. "As far as I know, she's never done any direct killing, but I have no doubt she's capable."

"Is there anything more we can do to protect Becky?" Dave looked appealingly at his master.

"Hold up," Becky raised a hand. "I don't want you all to think I'm the weakest link because I don't have magic. The tracking thing is okay, but you're not packing me away with the good china, get it?"

Veronica grinned. "I like this girl."

Dave looked defeated, but Balthazar chuckled softly. "I think you should get a can of pepper spray," he told her, "but we'll leave it at that for now. Dave…is there anyone else you're worried about? Your roommate? Your family?"

"Bennett?" Dave rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm trying to keep him out of all this. I'm not sure he'd get the magic stuff. Only I think he thinks I've joined the Illuminati or something."

"You may have to come clean eventually, but that's not what I mean. Where are your parents? We never talked about that."

Dave shrugged. "Apparently my dad walked out on us when I was a baby. My mom lives in White Plains, but the rest of the family lives in Omaha. Except my great uncle. He retired to a nudist colony in California."

"I think we'd better pay your mother a visit," Balthazar said. "In fact, I think we're overdue."

A spasm of guilt crossed Dave's face. "You think she's in danger? Because of me?"

"No. Because of Horvath," he corrected. "Let's go."


	8. Blood is Thicker

_It may be moot at this point in the story, but I feel that I should clarify my warning/rating. I'm not planning on the violence getting especially heinous here (although I make no promises every character will survive), and there won't be anything sexually explicit, but I am working with some dark themes, including mentions of rape and torture. Sometimes what happens between the lines is as disturbing as what is written out scene by scene, so I thought it prudent to throw this caveat out there._

_I feel like I should also say that I am aware of some issues of race/ethnicity in this movie's canon. I don't see any real reason to go off on them in an author's note, but I'm aware some people have a problem with Sun-Lok's characterization (or lack thereof) in the film (possibly the people who have complaints aren't the same people who read fanfics, but there you go). I tend to think it was just shallow characterization, and that he was Chinese solely so they could have a visually appealing scene in Chinatown. I've tried to build up some hints about who he is/was and his motivations in this fic, and while I'm convinced I've done the filmmakers one better, and I've had no complaints, I'm sure there are plenty of issues with how I've written him. I'm not an expert on Chinese culture or history, just a writer with access to the internet and the library._

_Now, if someone more knowledgeable than me has written or subsequently writes a Sun-Lok-centric fic, I'd be all over that. Because I like it when people flesh out minor characters.  
_

_Also, Sneakers the cat is probably the reason why Tank the dog lives with Dave the college student._

* * *

The butterflies were outside the tank when Abigail entered the room. Two of them perched on the lid; the rest were lined up on the windowsill. Wary, she hesitated, holding the plate of melon and saltwater in front of her as if it were a shield.

"You've escaped," she said, and was met with a soft, otherworldly chuckle.

_**You expect us to wait in a box until we are called upon?**_

"How did you get out?" She sidled into the room slowly. "I brought your dinner…"

_**The tank is not warded. Passing through the glass is hardly difficult. Set it down.**_

Uncertain, she placed the platter on top of the tank lid and backed up as they fluttered over to land on the sliced fruit. All the butterflies had pale blue eyes, and she found herself remembering the previous night's dream uncomfortably.

_**You have been gone for much of the day, you and the magician, **_the soundless voice pointed out, as the butterflies crept delicately over the plate. _**Tell me, did you learn anything of interest?**_

Her first impulse was to say no and leave, but to keep Sun-Lok completely in the dark would make him less useful to their cause. "We bought some ritual supplies," she admitted. "And collected news."

_**News?**_ The prompt was gentle but she could feel a pressure on her mind as the interest of the beings before her shifted.

"Stop that," she snapped. "I know when my thoughts are being invaded."

There was a pause, then a laugh. _**My apologies, little maiden. You are perceptive. Tell me…I know the name of the man in whose noble home we reside, Mr. Stone. You have not told me what to call you.**_

She frowned, suspicious of the attempt at friendliness. "Miss Williams will do, for now."

**_Then will the virtuous Miss Williams condescend to discuss what goes on outside this room, if it is of interest or significance?_**

Unsure whether to take the sudden flood of courtesy as a change of heart or an expression of sarcasm, she turned and made a show of inspecting the bookshelf, trailing her fingertips over a black jade skull. "We've heard that Lady Morgana is dead," she said at length. "Killed in battle by the Prime Merlinian."

_**The boy with the ring has come into his own. That is very interesting.**_

"Morgana meant nothing to you, of course," she said. "I read your entry in the Encantus."

_**It would be pointless to lie,**_ said the butterflies slowly._** No, I cared nothing for your Lady and her rivalries. Maxim interested me, however. Ultimately, I do not think he cared much about Morgana, either.**_

She looked over at the butterflies, but could not read their body language. "Why do you say that?"

_**I lived with him for several weeks. I observed no sentiment in him, only ambition. If your Morgana had indeed taken over this world, she would have found, in short order, her chief lieutenant plotting against her for power.**_

Abigail thought about what Blake had said. _A man who betrayed his own oathbound master._ The apprenticeship contract was the most sacred bond known to sorcerers. If Horvath had broken his oath with Merlin, there was nothing but fear or calculation to hold him loyal to Morgana. No wonder she and Drake had been disposable to the man. He felt next to nothing for his betters; how much less must he care for his subordinates?

Feeling disillusioned, she sat on the armchair nearest the shelf. "It isn't meant to be like this."

_**Oh? How is it meant to be?**_

She scowled at the insects, aware she was being baited. "We're meant to be working together for a common cause, not scrambling over one another like starving wolves all after a piece of one dead rabbit. I _trusted_ him!"

Angry, she hunched lower in the chair. It was true, though she hated herself for it in retrospect. She had trusted Horvath because he was foremost among their line. Because he was Morgana's lieutenant, and she wanted to believe in Morgana. And because her own master, Felicia, had been the only bright spot in a cold and tedious childhood. Now the foolishness of it seemed so clear.

_**Perhaps Miss Williams is not so wise as she once thought?**_ The butterflies suggested slyly. _**Will she accept advice from her humble servant?**_

She narrowed her eyes. "I have no reason to trust _you_. I don't even really know who you are."

**_I am Sun-Lok and I am Pa She. I was the son of a whore who left me to die by the side of a road, in this very country, in 1849. I was raised in a city orphanage where the masters did their best to beat the Chinese out of me, and failed. When I went to my own country I found it crawling with opium addicts and smug white men who took everything they could carry and pissed on what was left behind. I learned what I could from monks and shamans, always searching for strength. For power._**

"To what end?" She felt a twinge of sympathy in spite of herself. It was no small thing to be abandoned by a parent; she knew it all too well. His bitterness at the world was also familiar.

**_Does there need to be a specific end? If you cannot trust your superiors to defend you, you must gather and rule your inferiors in order to survive._**

Abigail laced her fingers together, hands in her lap. "…survival is one thing, but the Morganian goal is to alter the structures of power over the entire world. To hold the keys to life and death."

_**I have no objection to eternal life. Do you?**_

"I hate the world too much to want to be here forever."

_**Even if you could reshape it in your image?**_

She hesitated, because this thought had been in her mind since she began her apprenticeship, but now she was uncertain she trusted herself to such a task. Seeking to change the subject, she asked, "What advice did you have?"

**_Only that you should remember what a man wants and what he says he wants are different things._**

"Of course they are," she said, then her brows knit. She looked over at the butterflies. "You're not talking about Horvath anymore, are you?"

**_Mr. Stone is fond of women, is he not?_** It was a casual statement, but she felt a ripple of misgiving.

"What are you getting at? He has no interest in…we're not…I'm over a decade younger! The idea's obscene!" She got up, ready to storm out. "I'm capable of defending my own honor, thank you, and I don't need your filthy insinuations."

**_You have known him a very short time. Don't let down your guard. Without magic to level the field, he is the stronger._**

"Shut up, and get back in the tank," she said coldly. "We'll let you know when we have need of you."

_**Of course you will. Your humble servant awaits your call.**_ This time there was an unmistakably mocking tone coloring the courteous words, and she left, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Drake was coming slowly up the hall, looking tired. "Going for more aspirin," he explained as she raised an eyebrow at him. "How are the bugs?"

"Obnoxious," she snapped.

"Hmm." He glanced at the room, wondering privately what had happened, but feeling too sore and ill to question her further. "…well, don't let 'em get to you. I called Bob in. He's going to come make dinner and tidy up, but he knows when not to ask questions, so don't mind him."

She nodded, but frowned a little. "Don't you have female employees?"

"'Course, but they're mostly in costuming and the business end of things. Don't need any of that right now." He glanced at his hands. "Well, except I do, but it's not top priority, I suppose. Unless you want to try fixing this mess?" He waved his fingers at her, but it was mostly a joke. He wasn't sure he trusted her with nail polish.

Rationally, she knew it was an innocent tease, but the conversation with Sun-Lok had planted a seed, and she recoiled, offended and repulsed. "I'm not your servant. Don't come near me, you painted harlot." The insult was quiet, but heated, and Drake was taken aback.

"Abby? What the hell?" He wasn't sure whether to be hurt or just confused.

Shaking her head, she darted away down the hall and into the guestroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.

He watched her go, glanced at his chipped manicure as if it might have answers, then gave up and went into the bathroom to retrieve some painkillers.

He couldn't recall ever having been called a harlot before.

* * *

"Your mom likes animals, huh?" Becky smiled at Dave as Balthazar pulled the car up the driveway of his childhood home.

Dave rolled his eyes. The lawn was adorned with concrete and terra cotta figures ranging from frogs to geese to cartoon-style elephants. "I blame myself. I gave her a bunny planter for mother's day when I was sixteen. It just kind of grew from there."

"That's kind of sweet." She elbowed him. "Better than lawn gnomes, I guess."

"Yeah, she has some of those, too." He got out of the car, held the car door for her, then jogged up the walk and knocked on the front door of the house. "Mom? Hey, mom, it's Dave!"

Becky followed, looking around, and Balthazar and Veronica trailed last, slowly. Balthazar seemed to be intent on listening, or possibly smelling the air. Watching his pensive expression, Becky wondered if he could really sense magic, or danger, so intuitively. After over a thousand years, who knew?

As they gathered on the porch, the front door opened a crack. A sliver of face peered out uncertainly, bright brown eyes flickering over them all.

"It's me, mom. Are you okay? Uh, these are…some friends of mine?" Dave sounded a little unsure.

The door opened wider. "Dave! Baby, I'm sorry, I was napping. You just surprised me. Why don't you all come on in?"

Dianne Stutler was a little short, with a full, slightly jiggly figure, and shoulder-length hair lightly touched with gray. Her smile was dazzling, though, and she pushed open the storm door and pulled her son down for a noisy kiss on the cheek. He gave a perfunctory struggle, sighed, and kissed her back. "Is it your day off? I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"I wasn't feeling up to snuff this morning." She shrugged and backed up to let them all in. "So what's going on? You don't call for two weeks and then you suddenly decide to visit?"

"I called you on Sunday," he protested.

"Whatever. Who did you bring me? Is this a girlfriend? Please tell me this is a girlfriend." She regarded Becky with a sly grin.

Dave turned red, but Becky laughed and shook the woman's hand. "Yes, absolutely. I'm Becky Barnes. I think I met you once, when you brought cupcakes to our first-grade class. It was a while ago."

"You remember that? You're better than I am." The older woman gave Balthazar and Veronica a questioning look, offering her hand. "Dianne Stutler. Call me Di."

Balthazar shook her hand formally, bowing slightly. "Balthazar Blake. It's an honor to meet you. And this is Veronica Gorloisen…my…"

"Fiancée," Veronica finished for him, and he looked relieved. Between one thing and another they had had little enough time to discuss their relationship since her release (and he was partly afraid to bring it up), but he had always meant the necklace to be a betrothal gift. Veronica shot him a shy glance, and he smiled at her.

"How sweet," Dianne shook Veronica's hand, then turned back to Dave. "You want to help me make some lemonade for your friends?"

"I'm not sure how long we're staying." Dave glanced at Balthazar.

"I think we can stay long enough for lemonade," he said smoothly. "Why don't we all help?"

"Oh, goodness. I hope you can all fit in my kitchen." She turned and made her way down the hall toward the back of the house.

The kitchen was decorated in shades of yellow, and there was a framed sampler on the wall next to a calendar featuring monthly cookie recipes. A plate on the counter had three apple turnovers on it, one with a bite out of the corner. Dianne opened the refrigerator and poked in the crisper drawer for lemons.

"I thought you were napping, not snacking," Dave nodded at the plate, and reached for a pitcher in one of the cabinets.

"…I was checking them for freshness," she said, emerging from the appliance with a plastic bag. "You can't leave 'em on the counter long, they dry out. I'll slice these, and you get out the juicer…"

Balthazar sat at the kitchen table, watching the interaction, and Becky fetched the sugar bowl. "I can't remember the last time I had homemade lemonade," she grinned.

"Don't tell me you drink the powdered shi—stuff," Ms. Stutler shook her head in mock-horror. "That's no good for a growing girl."

Veronica leaned against the wall near Balthazar, peering out the back door. "Do you have a cat? A grey tabby?"

Dianne looked over her shoulder uncertainly, in the process of getting out a kitchen knife to slice the fruit.

Dave craned his neck. "Yeah, that's Sneakers. Better let him in, he'll shred the screen if he gets impatient."

Balthazar's eyebrows went up, and he leaned forward slightly as Veronica opened the back door. "Dave," he began, but the cat's entrance interrupted him. It trotted into the room, paused in the middle of the floor, and stared at Dianne, fur rising. A low growl emerged from its half-open mouth.

"What's your problem, hairball?" Dave looked amused, but Balthazar was on his feet at once.

In a single swift movement, Veronica grabbed Becky and pulled her away from the Prime Merlinian's mother. Balthazar made a similar lunge for Dave, but the cat was in his way, and before he could react, Dianne had a knife pressed against her son's throat. "Okay, easy, everyone," she said. "I'm not looking for violence."

Nobody moved, except the cat, which hissed and dashed from the room.

"M-mom?" Dave went white, eyes wide and pleading.

"Sorry, kid. No." A ripple of energy coursed over the armed woman, her form dissolving and shifting. When it passed, a sturdy man stood in her place, heavily built but not much taller, gray-haired and dark-eyed.

Balthazar rubbed his ring hand. "Paolo? Paolo Candelario?"

"His son. Niccolo. Look, I don't actually want to kill anyone, so why don't you all just back away?" His gaze was narrowed, and tension sung in every line of his body.

"I kissed you. On the face!" Dave looked revolted.

"Yeah, I'll treasure our brief yet passionate affair until I die," Candelario said dryly.

"Put down the knife, or that'll be in less than sixty seconds," Balthazar said grimly.

"You think?" Niccolo raised an eyebrow. "Because I think the boy here might want to know where his real mother went, and if you kill me, it's gonna be a lot harder to find her."

"Then tell me," Dave said, swallowing hard.

"Please don't hurt him," Becky murmured. Her eyes were dry, but she clung to Veronica's sleeve, deeply upset.

"You're working with Maxim, aren't you?" Veronica said. "You know, that hasn't ended well for anyone. Ever, really."

"Lady, my choices are limited, but thanks for your concern." Candelario was watching Balthazar, who seemed to be considering his options. "I'm in the family business, whether I want to be or not."

"You're supposed to be a clerk, not a warrior," Balthazar said. "I hope you're being paid extra."

"Let's make a deal," Dave said, angling his head cautiously to look down at his captor. "You and me. I'll walk out of here with you; they can all stay here. And we'll talk."

"Wait, Dave!" Becky reached out impulsively. "Don't!"

"It's okay. I'm fine." He flashed a weak smile at her, then glanced at his Master. "Let me have your keys, Balthazar."

The ancient Merlinian blinked, then reached slowly into his pocket. "Hell of a way to get me to lend you my car," he said. "Are you insured?"

"This isn't funny," Becky glared at him. "What's the matter with you?"

Veronica hushed her with a gesture.

"Okay." Candelario watched as Balthazar withdrew his keys and tossed them to Dave. "Good. You drive, kid. No magic."

"Can do. Do I get a hint where we're going?"

"Not while they're listening." He pushed Dave ahead of him, shifting so the knife-point pressed against his kidney region. "Start by going south."

Balthazar watched them go, but didn't move. Veronica pulled Becky into a hug as Candelario and his hostage left the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed. Becky broke free from the older woman's embrace and rushed to the window in time to watch the car drive off. She looked near tears, but when Balthazar and Veronica came up behind her, she whirled around, livid. "Why didn't you stop them? Why didn't you protect him? You're supposed to be these great sorcerers, and you just let them go!"

"Easy," Veronica began, reaching out to comfort her, but she shoved her hand away.

"Becky," Balthazar's voice was gentle. "I let Dave go because I trust him. And you should, too."

She folded her arms across her chest, furious. "What do you mean?"

"He's the Prime Merlinian," Veronica explained. "Candelario couldn't have picked a worse hostage. Balthazar and I, we need our rings. We can't do magic without them. Dave can."

"He can't be separated from his magic," Balthazar added. "And that's his greatest power. I've taught him dissolution and reformation of matter. I've taught him attack spells. He could have turned that knife into a feather, or just reached out and broken Candelario's kneecaps. He wanted to wait it out, and see what information he could get. And I don't blame him. His mother could be in a lot of danger."

Becky turned away, but the rigid set of her shoulders began to ease.

Veronica sighed. The younger woman had seen some magic, but she hadn't witnessed the battle with Morgana, and she had no real idea of the extent of her new boyfriend's abilities. "You always worry," she said. "And they do make mistakes, and get hurt in spite of their best. But you have to trust them to come home to you. And they have to trust you, too."

Balthazar slipped his arm around Veronica's waist, hugging her gratefully.

"I'm sorry," Becky took a deep breath. "The magic thing is cool and all, but…I'm not used to all this. I'm not sure I want to be. But he's worth it." She gave them both an apologetic look.

Balthazar smiled awkwardly, relieved. "It's not always this chaotic, I swear. Do you two want to head back to the lab, and I'll wait in case he comes back here?"

"I think I'd rather stay," Becky sat down on the sofa with a soft moan.

"In that case," Balthazar squeezed Veronica, then let go and headed for the kitchen, "I'll go finish up the lemonade. I don't think the real Ms. Stutler will mind." He needed to think, and he needed to think alone.

Veronica watched him go, privately hoping the real Ms. Stutler was still alive.

* * *

Dianne awoke slowly, with an odd ringing in her ears, and tensed immediately because she couldn't see a damn thing. Dark fabric covered her entire face, and when she attempted to reach up and pull it away, she became aware that her hands were tied behind her, arms locked around a chilly metal or concrete pole. Heart pounding, she twisted her wrists.

The last thing she remembered was answering her front door. Two men, a bright blue light, and then nothing. Panic melted into confusion, then back into terror. Who would do this to her, and why, and where?

"Ah, you're awake."

She couldn't see the speaker, but could tell it was a man, with a cultured British accent. Tilting her head, she could hear his footsteps through the fabric as he approached. "I'm afraid I can't unblind you at the moment, but let me know if you have trouble breathing."

The fabric was a loose enough weave to let through both air and scent. She thought she smelled blood, and maybe paint. "Where am I?" she asked quietly.

"Actually, it's an abandoned church. Presbyterian, I think. Perhaps that will comfort you some, if you're a religious woman." The footsteps moved a short distance off. "We wanted to do the ritual at your residence, but there wasn't enough floor space, and I cannot bear writing cramped circles, especially for a spell like this. This one's coming nicely, though, and I think in the long run this location is even better."

She struggled to sort through this information. "…what the hell do you mean 'spell'? Are you some kind of Satanist?" The idea that she might be an appropriate sacrifice was bizarre, but frightening enough to make her yank harder at her bonds.

He laughed. "Oh, dear. Candelario was right. I've been out of touch with the people for far too long. Yes, the heart of a middle-aged secretary is the only food that will appease my dark master, I'm afraid. Oh, wait, you are still a virgin, aren't you? If not, we'll have to call the whole thing off."

"What? Are you insane?" Wrists burning from her attempts at writhing free, she recognized that she was being toyed with, but couldn't quite determine why or to what degree.

"I've always thought of sanity as a continuum," he said thoughtfully. "It's not a black-or-white thing. You're not either mad or not-mad. You're on the path to one end or another. But that's irrelevant. I've got you, and there's nothing you can do about it at the moment, so you may as well humor me."

She slowly ceased her flailing, feeling a few drops of blood trickling down her palms, and tried to force herself to breathe deeply. "Okay, then," she managed, "what do you actually want from me?"

"Ultimately, your son," he replied. "But in the interim, about two ounces of blood will suffice."

"David? Is he here? Dave!" Her voice rose shrilly.

"Quiet! Honestly. He's not here yet, and I'll be sure to let you know when he arrives."

"Don't you dare," she felt tears pricking her eyes. None of this made sense, but she knew a threat when she heard one, and when it came to her baby (because no matter how old he got, he always would be her baby), she wasn't having any of it. "I will kill you. I will buy a gun, and I will hunt you down and blow your face off."

He laughed again. "There is truly nothing like maternal concern. You make me wish I had known my own mother better. But you're in no position to threaten."

She had been listening to the voice and the occasional footsteps, and as they came closer, she took the opportunity to lash out with both legs, kicking as hard as she could. He had neglected to remove her relatively sensible pumps, and she heard a grunt of pain and an uneven shuffle as he staggered back. It made her wish she had worn stilettos.

He swore quietly, in a language she couldn't identify, but she knew cursing when she heard it. "Get close enough and I'll do it again," she warned.

"My mistake," he said in a low, darkly amused tone. "Perhaps I should have tied you tighter."

She was about to reply, feeling she had, for a moment, found the upper hand, but a cold feeling surged up her body, starting at the ankles. It stopped at waist level, tightening around her midsection like an undersized belt, and she found herself paralyzed. She gave a little cry of alarm, and felt a hand close around her throat. The pressure was unpleasant, but not enough to close her airway. "What…what did you…" she gasped.

"You're going to want to try to relax and take deep breaths," he said. "Unfortunately, the blood I need must come directly from your heart. If you don't struggle much, you should survive. But this is going to hurt."

A point of icy pain pierced her chest, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming.


	9. Puppet

_I'm not sure how many more chapters I have ahead here, but the action is about to build to a crescendo. I want to reiterate the last chapter's warning, especially since there are a few creepy paragraphs toward the end of this chapter. Nothing explicit, but disturbing themes are all over the place._

_I feel like my writing isn't quite up to par here, but I really wanted to move forward with this story, so be patient with my stylistic failings.  
_

* * *

"All right," Dave said, turning a corner. "How about you tell me where we're going now?" He was focused on the road, but his hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white.

Candelario still had the knife against the boy's ribs, but there was less certainty in the threat now. He was watching Dave's face. "Not far. Not quite to the Connecticut border. Take 95 South, for now. I'll let you know when to turn off."

"Right." He steered the car into the far lane, looking for the ramp to the interstate. "So how long were you waiting for us?"

Candelario glanced out the window to make sure they were going the right way, then back. "Couple hours. To be honest, I didn't expect Blake to be tagging along." His heart was still going triple-time, but that might partly be the fault of the murmur he'd had for the past six years. Him against three sorcerers, and he'd come out alive. So far, at least.

"Yeah? He's a little overprotective." Dave smiled grimly at the road. "So you're not a sorcerer. Why are you working for Horvath?"

"What is this, a job interview? You want my résumé?"

"I like to keep a full dossier on anyone who kidnaps members of my immediate family."

"It's nothing personal." He shrugged. "Your mom seemed real nice, actually. I mean, I didn't get to chat, but…"

"I'm pretty good at controlling my power," Dave said casually, "but if you get me upset, I can't promise I won't _accidentally_ throw you through the windshield."

He shifted his grip on the knife handle, nervous and wondering how much control he really had over this situation. "Look, like I said, I don't have much choice. My family's been keeping files for the Morganians for three generations. It's a political thing."

"Political?" Dave guided the car through traffic, speeding.

"Prime Merlinian." Candelario shook his head. "You haven't had much history yet, huh? Slow down, hotshot, I'm not having the cops pull us over."

Dave let up on the gas reluctantly. "Fine. Keep talking."

"Well, you've heard Morgana's other title, right? Morgan le Fay? She has allies in the faery courts. So did Merlin, I hear, but I wouldn't know as much about that."

"Faeries?" Dave's brows knit in a skeptical frown. Balthazar had given him only the briefest of overviews of the magical kingdom outside humanity. He had been assured that fae existed, but not much more than that, and he was picturing Tinkerbell.

Candelario snorted, reading his expression. "You got a lot to learn, kid. My grandfather was the bastard son of a wind folletto and a fisherman's daughter."

"You lost me. Folletto?"

"It's an Italian word. Type of solitary faery. Good with glamours."

Dave glanced at him quickly, then away. "I guess that explains it. I thought maybe Horvath dressed you up like my mom."

"It's not something I have to do often, but I can handle a glamour. Feels a little weird, is all." Candelario craned his neck at the interstate signs, checking their progress.

"Yeah, I bet. Do we turn here?"

"Not yet." He leaned back again and adjusted his grip on the knife. "So, yeah. When the ranks started thinning a couple centuries back, Horvath tried to call up some of Morgana's old allies to fill in. But that's like a US candidate calling up the British Navy to help 'em win the presidential election. It ain't gonna happen, and if it did, the side effects wouldn't be worth it. What they did do, though, was mobilize all the half-bloods they could find. The courts won't claim us, because we're not full-blood fae, and we're not welcome there. But they'll use us, and they'll string us along, and they'll bind us if we don't play their game."

"So it's like a magical contract? You really don't have a choice?"

Candelario made a wobbly gesture. "Grandpa was bound. Daddy was a volunteer. I'd rather play along when asked nicely than wait and have Horvath and the Courts come crashing down around my ears."

"Oh, I see. You're a coward."

Candelario frowned at him, then shook his head and laughed. "Maybe. Maybe you just don't understand yet what you're up against."

"I fought Morgana," Dave reminded him. "And won, thanks."

"For fifteen minutes. Blake and Horvath, they've been butting heads for centuries. You've got something they don't have, but I don't. They're smarter than us, and they're stronger than us, and I don't pick fights I don't have a chance of winning. Maybe that's cowardly, or maybe it's just not suicidal."

"You just faced off against Balthazar _and_ Veronica on Horvath's orders," Dave pointed out. "You're really that scared of him, that you'd take that kind of risk?"

"Fuck, yeah. There's nothing worse than being bound, kid. Once they get you, there's nothing you can do to get out of it. And when you've got the bloodline I've got, you can't count on death to release you." He fell silent, eyes distant and a little angry.

"Sounds…like a long story." Dave ventured.

The knife twitched, prodding him painfully, but without breaking skin. "Take the next exit," Candelario said.

Dave obeyed. After a couple minutes, it became clear that his captor wasn't about to speak again, and he asked tentatively, "My mom…is she okay?"

Candelario blinked slowly, then said, "He said he didn't have to kill her. He probably wants her intact until you get there, at least."

Dave's eyebrows rose. "Wait, he's expecting me?"

The older man gave a wry smirk. "I thought you'd already figured that out. I was waiting for you, after all."

Dave considered this, and nodded slowly. "Okay. Good. I guess I've got a bone to pick."

"Yeah," Candelario muttered. "Good luck with that."

* * *

"I think we should try the tracking spell," Balthazar said, re-entering the room with a lemon in one hand. "In fact, I think we should get a move on it ASAP."

Becky and Veronica both looked at him, but it was the younger girl who spoke. "To track who? Dave? I thought you said he could handle this."

"Yes and no," he grimaced apologetically. "I'm still in the process of working out what 'this' is. The more I consider it, the less I like it."

"That man was a plant," Veronica nodded, "From Maxim. That's obvious, but to what purpose?"

"To get Dave off guard, maybe," Balthazar said. "If the cat hadn't unmasked him, I think his orders were to drug our drinks. Look at this." He turned the lemon over and peeled back the skin. There was a small glass vial within, half-full of a greenish liquid.

"That looks like a sleeping-draught," Veronica said.

"It's not quite enough for four," he nodded, "but it'd knock out two people pretty efficiently. I can only assume Dave was the target. Maybe Becky, as well, in case he brought her to meet Dianne."

"Then we played into their hands," Becky bit her lip, "letting him go."

"I'm afraid so, and I take responsibility for that," he said grimly. "But at least Dave's awake. He has a chance to escape or fight back. And he's not hard to trace. His power signature is very distinctive."

"Then let's do it," Becky said, standing. "Right away, before he can get hurt."

"We need to be cautious," he said. "If Maxim wanted Dave dead, this would be poison, not sleeping potion. And Dianne's still on the line. There's more at work here, and I'm worried by the obvious possibility."

Veronica's eyes widened. "You think Maxim would try that on David?"

"It's typically what the Mothersblood Circle is used for, and Stone's friend said Horvath had bought some of the other ingredients. Cinnabar. Myrrh."

"What? Try what?" Becky looked between them intently.

"Possession," Balthazar said. "To take over Dave's mind and work his body and his magic like a puppet."

"Oh, god, we've been so blind," Veronica gasped. "That makes perfect sense! He could use Dave for the Rising with no power boost and no risk to himself at all."

"Which is the most hideously ironic idea I've ever heard, and I'm not surprised Maxim conceived of it," Balthazar finished, and tossed the lemon onto the coffee table. He looked like he wanted to punch something instead. "Becky, I'm sorry."

The blonde swallowed a sense of rising panic, and just nodded, accepting the apology. "I guess since neither of you are psychic," she said weakly, trailed off, then rallied and tried again. "Okay. Track him, then, and we'll fight if we have to. You do the magic, I'll fix the satellite dishes."

"He wouldn't thank me for bringing you into a battle," Balthazar eyed her. "But I think you're already in it. Veronica and I will do the tracking spell. You call Stone and Abigail. They'll want in on this, and we're going to need the help. Tell him to bring a gun if he has one. It's always hard to hit a sorcerer with a bullet, but it could provide a distraction."

"Will do," she almost whispered, and darted for the telephone.

* * *

Abigail sat on a kitchen stool with her chin in her hands, watching Bob slice carrots for a salad. His movements were quick and spare and confident. He was ex-military, he had told her, discharged for violating 'don't ask don't tell', but he was still in impeccable shape, and something about the way he wielded the cooking knife suggested he was capable of using it in a brawl. He was Drake's personal bodyguard and head of security, and she had the impression he knew more about sorcery than he was letting on.

Drake himself was, as far as she knew, napping in his own bedroom. She hadn't apologized for calling him a harlot, and he didn't seem eager to press the issue. The truce between them was uneasy. In truth, she was a little ashamed of herself, but still felt too edgy around him to try mending the breach.

"How do you do that?" she asked after a moment, watching the knife flash. "Chop so fast, I mean?"

"Mm?" Bob spared her a glance. She wasn't sure what Drake had told him about her, but he hadn't asked her anything aside from whether she had food allergies. "Practice, mostly. It's easier on hard vegetables. You can't do this with tomatoes. They just get crushed."

"I've actually never had tomatoes."

"I better put them on the side, then. My niece hates them."

"I'm not picky, as a rule, but thank you." She jumped as something by her elbow started to buzz and writhe across the countertop.

"Take it easy. It's only Mr. Stone's mobile." Bob smiled faintly at her.

"Oh. Oh, yes." She relaxed. "Should one of us answer it?"

"That's not my job," he shook his head. "Not his personal cell. It's probably one of his girlfriends."

"He has a lot of them, doesn't he?" She sniffed a little, but picked up the phone and peered at the display. The number was there, but there was no name attached. It buzzed again in her hand, and on a whim, she prodded at the buttons, hoping she wouldn't end up staring at another naked woman.

After a second, she heard a faint but familiar voice. "Hello? Is anyone there? It's Becky Barnes. Balthazar asked me to call."

Abigail hesitated, glancing at Bob, but he didn't seem able to discern the words from halfway across the kitchen. He shrugged and went back to cutting vegetables.

She held the phone closer to her face tentatively. "This is Abigail. Drake is asleep."

"Well, wake him up. This is important," Becky was none too happy to hear her, judging from the tone of voice. "Horvath may have Dave. We're going after him, and you need to come help."

Abigail didn't care what happened to the Prime Merlinian, but the word 'Horvath' got her immediate attention. "Where?"

"We're at Dave's mother's place. Meet us here, quickly, and have Drake bring whatever weapons he has. I'll give you the address. Do you have paper handy?"

"Just a moment." Abigail groped for a paper napkin. Bob, guessing at what she needed, pulled a pen out of a drawer and tossed it to her. "Go on."

She scribbled down the address Becky gave her, then set the phone down. Bob helpfully leaned over to hit the button to disconnect the call. "Got business to attend to?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," she nodded. "And right away. I'll go wake him."

"Need the car?" He put down the knife with a sigh. A perfectly good salad was going to go to waste.

"I don't know yet. Wait a moment, and I'll let you know." She tucked the address in her pocket and hopped down from the stool. She wasn't anxious to approach Drake again, but she was more than eager to participate in an attack on Horvath, and for that she needed the backup.

She hurried down the hall and knocked on the door. It wasn't locked, actually hanging ajar, but the only response she got was an incoherent growl. She assumed this meant he was still half-asleep, so she pushed her way inside.

He was not in the bed.

Confused, she scanned the dimly lit room. "Drake? Get up. The Merlinians have found Horvath. We have to go."

She caught a movement in the corner of the room, and crossed over cautiously, reaching for the bedside lamp.

"Abby…get out…" the hunched shape had Drake's voice, but there was a guttural, hoarse quality to it that was wholly unfamiliar, and she hesitated, chilled.

"Drake…?" she almost whispered.

"Run," he choked, then slowly began to straighten.

Alarmed, she batted at the lamp until her fingers hit the switch by sheer accident. When the light came on, she tried to cry out, horrified, but all that emerged was a soft whine.

He was white as a glacier, face contorted in pain, and he was surrounded by butterflies. They seemed plastered to his face, to his throat and to his partially bared chest, wings beating a featherlight pattern on his skin. He staggered, giving her a terrified look out of round, dark eyes.

"No! Stop it!" She cast about and grabbed up one of his slippers off the floor at the bedside, then lunged in to strike at the insects, but an unseen force pushed her back, propelling her against the nightstand and holding her there. As she struggled, she watched the insects drop to the floor one by one, like autumn leaves, and dissolve into dust.

Drake's eyes slammed shut, and his mouth twisted into a silent scream, then fell slowly into the slack look of a sleepwalker. Slowly, his eyelids lifted again, and Abigail gasped. The irises were now pale silver, almost invisible against the whites.

"Oh, God," she clawed at the nightstand, trying to push off of it and free herself.

He smiled. "Ssshhh…" it was a sibilant hiss, a parody of reassurance, and the voice was not quite Drake's any more. "Please, Miss Williams. Panic ill becomes you."

"Sun-Lok," she said. "What are you doing?"

"I needed a body." He shrugged. "Mr. Stone is the right age and sex, and I believe once his talisman is retrieved, his magic will suit me well, also." He stepped forward and curled a loose lock of her hair around his fingers. "I interrupted you. My apologies. Tell me more about the Merlinians."

"Is he dead? Did you kill him?" She tried to pull away, but he gripped her chin in his other hand and held her fast.

"Not yet." He smiled again. "I need access to his knowledge and memory until I acclimate to this time. You would be surprised what the charming Mr. Stone has locked away in here. For example, he's quite fond of you, if reluctantly so."

He still gripped her face in one hand, but the other moved to cradle the back of her neck. It was too familiar, too invasive, and there was unmistakable threat in the grip. "Let me go," she pleaded quietly.

"Easy," he replied in a low purr, toying with the collar of her shirt. "You were, I believe, about to explain the statement you made when you first entered this room. The Merlinians have found Horvath?"

Her heart pounded painfully, and she felt sick and lightheaded. Drake's fingers brushed the skin just above her clavicle; his hands were soft, she registered, the nails smoothly filed but just long enough to scratch. The thought that he might be imprisoned in his own mind and just as horrified by Sun-Lok's sensual menace made her want to cry, or vomit. He leaned in and inhaled the scent of her bound-up hair, and when she tried once more to pull away, he gave her a shove that sent her spinning and stumbling to the carpet at his feet.

"Where," he demanded quietly, "and how did you hear from them?"

At exactly that moment, the worst and best possible, Bob appeared in the doorway, all innocent calm. "I pulled the car around if you—what's going on?" He stiffened at the scene, taking in the look of terror on Abigail's face.

Sun-Lok moved quickly, with a loose-limbed, inhuman grace that ill became Drake's form. Bob scarcely had time to raise a hand in his defense before the bolt of amber energy slammed into him, tossing him into the hall. Sun-Lok lunged after, fingers curled as if he believed the manicured nails were claws that could rend his enemy into strips. As both men vanished into the next room, Abigail could hear a yell of pain, and she scrambled up to dash after them. "Wait! Stop! No!"

When she caught up, Bob was tangled in a 6-foot, wrought iron candelabra that writhed and twitched with Sun-Lok's magic. The sorcerer was crouched on the floor, watching with evident enjoyment. Abigail trembled by the door, staring as blood pooled at the bodyguard's feet, and his lips began to go blue. "Please don't kill him," she said softly, seeing a man she had known for less than an hour, but hearing the rasp of the last breath leaving Giles Cory's chest.

Sun-Lok turned to look at her consideringly with eyes that were Drake's, yet not. "Give me what I want," he demanded.

Bob mouthed a series of curses, but no sound came out.

"We've been in touch with Blake and the other Merlinians," she said quickly, desperately. "We have no choice. Blake promised to break the Parasite curse if we assist and don't betray them. The girl just called, the Prime Merlinian's lover. She told us to meet them. Please, I have the address, just stop."

He looked from her to Bob thoughtfully, then shrugged and stood. The candelabra released, and the bodyguard slumped to the floor with a wheeze. Sun-Lok swept past him, approaching Abigail again. She cringed. "We have to move fast. She said to bring weapons."

He grinned, knowing he had her cowed. "Good. You will say nothing."

"They'll know. Your eyes…" she shifted, glancing into the room where Bob lay drifting into unconsciousness. "They're not Drake's eyes. And you're not matching his accent."

He chuckled and the ice-colored irises darkened to brown. "Better, love?" There was still something wrong, a weird timbre to the voice, but the accent was familiar.

"You're a monster," she shuddered in protest, and he caught her arm in a bruising grasp.

"Maybe. But I can get your magic back. Stone never could have."

As he propelled her ahead of him down the hall, she had to acknowledge he might be right about that. On the other hand, Drake wouldn't have demanded anywhere near the price Sun-Lok seemed to expect her to pay.


	10. Double Agent

_This took me way, way longer than I intended, and I feel bad about it since I got such lovely reviews for the last chapter. I've been doing crafting and roleplay and getting distracted with other things. I'm aware this one's a cliffhanger on multiple counts, though, so I will try to update promptly_.

_It was tricky in this chapter to write Drake/Sun-Lok, since it's both of them in one body. I would have used Sun-Lok's name exclusively, since he's the one in charge at the moment, but I didn't want to conjure up images of Gregory Woo in Toby Kebbell's costumes from the movie, not because it would be unappealing (I'd tap that), but because it's a bit disruptive. So, yeah. Drake's body, Sun-Lok's mind._

_Also, I'm particularly proud of Veronica and Abigail's conversation here._

* * *

"Finally." Becky looked pale and strained when she answered the door to the Stutler home. "You two took your time."

"You said come quickly," Abigail replied, matching the blonde's acerbic tone. "You didn't say instantly. We can't teleport; you know that."

"Please come in," Veronica appeared behind Becky, her tone and expression gentler. "We're a little on edge. Balthazar is running a tracking spell, but he's having trouble."

Drake's hand, under Sun-Lok's control, was clamped lightly on the back of Abigail's neck, a gesture that was ostensibly protective but felt more like a threat. He let go to allow her to enter, though, beaming at the other two women. Abigail could almost sense his thoughts. Veronica, like Abigail, had knowledge and power he could use. Becky, on the other hand, would be cannon fodder.

"Anything we can do to help?" he asked innocently, stepping through the doorway and shifting the bundle under his arm.

"Not at the moment, I'm afraid," Veronica smiled politely, oblivious to the undertones. "You two sit a moment; I'd like a word with Miss Williams."

Sun-Lok's eyes narrowed briefly. He would not want Abigail out of his sight long, but to refuse overtly would look suspicious. After a moment, he nodded and settled on the couch. "Right. We'll just open presents, then, shall we?" He placed his bundle on the coffee table. "You know anything about guns, Becky?"

"…not much." She looked uncomfortable, but sat next to him. "I guess I get a crash course, huh?"

Abigail watched them over her shoulder as Veronica gently guided her into the kitchen. If Sun-Lok overplayed his hand and Becky got suspicious, he would kill her without a second thought, and the whole house of cards would collapse around them.

The older sorceress broke in on her distraction. "Miss Williams? Abigail. Please, I just need a moment."

With an effort, the Morganian girl refocused her attention. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm on edge, too."

"I understand." Veronica worried her lip as if searching for words, then began, "You know who I am, of course."

"You are Veronica Gorloisen, Merlin's third apprentice and Balthazar Blake's lover."

Troubled by the mechanical answer, she shook her head. "That, yes, but…not just that. I've been out of commission for a while, but before I was imprisoned, I was many things. They called me the Good Lady in Albion. In Snowdonia I was the White Witch. In Hibernia I was the Queen of the Sea. Like you, I'm a woman, and like you, I know what it is to be thought of as chattel. I belonged to Merlin, I belong to Balthazar, because I choose to give of myself. Not because I'm a slave seeking kinder masters."

Now she had Abigail's full attention. "I meant no insult," she said slowly. "I suppose I wasn't thinking."

"I'm not offended. But I saw the way you looked when you heard Morgana was dead, and I know what she promised her followers, male and female alike. Because she would serve no one herself, she assumed that the promise of power would tempt every other person into darkness. For a lot of people, it did. I would like to tell you everything she offered was a lie, but I can't. There are people who will take everything you have to give, without thanks or kindness, and breaking them before they can break you is one way to be safe. But it's not the only way, and Morgana herself was never who you seem to think she was. I know. No one knows better than I do. She was in my head for a very long time." She took a step forward and knelt to be closer to Abigail's eye level.

The young witch didn't move. She could barely breathe, because what the Merlinian said was the most awful truth she could have imagined. Closing her eyes would not shut it out. Shattering her eardrums would not keep her from hearing it.

"Morgana wanted total control," Veronica continued, gentle and merciless, "and to give even a little to her followers would mean that she had less than she desired. No doubt she had her reasons. But had she won, and twisted the world the way she planned, you would not be a free woman among free women. You would be a slave to a tyrant, no less cruel for being female, and for having been wounded once herself."

Tears welled in Abigail's eyes, and she shook her head violently, in protest, but not in denial. To her surprise and shame, the Merlinian sorceress pulled her into a gentle hug. "I'm sorry, but you deserve the truth. And I think you already knew it, a little. Grieve for the woman you wanted Morgana to be, and for that loss. But don't grieve for the woman she actually was, and above all, don't make her mistake. I serve humankind, because I have so much, and am so much, more than I will ever need. And so are you. You are full to overflowing."

She trembled a moment, sobbed, and suddenly clung to the older woman in return. _Guard yourself_, her master had told her, _beware, don't be taken._ But never had she said _you have so much to give_.

Veronica gave a soft, soothing murmur and stroked her hair. Abigail didn't catch the words, and it didn't matter, anyway. She would not be turned away, humiliated, punished. For just a few minutes, it was all right to cry.

She wasn't sure how long they stood like that, with her blubbering like a child and Veronica comforting her patiently. It could not have been long, though, because danger was close and time was short, and when she remembered what lurked in the next room, she was horrified at herself. Pulling back, she scrubbed her eyes with her sleeve and gasped, "Drake…Drake is…"

"Are you ladies okay?" The voice at the kitchen door was the last one she wanted to hear. Abigail turned to meet Sun-Lok's gaze through Drake's eyes. His lips were smiling, but there was ice beneath the surface. "Oh, look at you," he clucked his tongue and pulled out a handkerchief. "Take it easy, love, it's going to be all right."

Hesitantly she took the silk square from his hand and wiped her face. Next to her, Veronica was frowning a little, partly irritated and partly uncertain. She didn't know Drake the way Abigail did. She couldn't see there was something else there, not with any clarity. And yet her senses told her there was danger. "Is Balthazar done?" she asked slowly.

"Yeah," he nodded. "He's looking over the guns. Better come out. We'll have to leave soon, and I think Becky's anxious to get her boy back."

Veronica stood and glanced down at Abigail, as if to make sure she was up to going on. "I'll be fine," the young Morganian said, and meant it.

Whatever Sun-Lok was planning could not be allowed to continue, but she didn't dare betray him openly. She needed time to plan, and maybe finding Horvath would give her that. Shaking inwardly, she tucked the handkerchief in her own pocket and pushed past Drake's body, into the living room.

"I thought these had all been destroyed," Balthazar said as the three of them re-entered. "I'm appalled. Do you even know what this can do?"

There were two guns on the table, one a relatively ordinary automatic, not currently loaded. The other looked like an elongated revolver, polished and shiny as glass, with weird sigils engraved into the stock.

"Of course. It's a Shieldbreaker. Vintage, 1857," Sun-Lok said, but this time Abigail wondered whether it was Drake's mind being accessed, or his own. Certainly Drake had never struck her as overfond of combat. "I didn't get it to use it, mind you. Just as a curiosity. Sort of pretty."

"Pretty?" Balthazar shuddered. "Have you ever tried to heal a sorcerer from the kind of wound these things make?"

"Do I look like a nurse?"

The glare he got for this was nothing short of malevolent, and Veronica moved to intervene and keep the peace. "What's so unusual about it, Balthazar?"

"There is no magical defense these things can't penetrate," he answered with a huff. "And typical healing spells don't do well against wounds from it, either."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Abigail ventured quietly, "in this case. Use it against Horvath, and then destroy it if it's so awful."

He frowned at her, but Becky piped up, "I hate to say it, but she's right. We've only got two people here who can sling spells, and three who can't. It gives us an edge."

He picked it up and ran a finger along the stock pensively, then nodded and handed it to Becky. "Careful how you aim it. There's no safety catch."

She looked startled, but given the uneasy nature of their alliance, it was the only choice he could have made. "Yeah. Okay. Can we go now?"

"We can go." Balthazar picked up the ordinary automatic and considered a moment before handing it to Drake on the assumption that Abigail wouldn't know how to use it and might even be injured by the kickback. "No games," he said.

Grinning, Sun-Lok saluted him.

Abigail felt very small and vulnerable.

* * *

The parking lot was full of cracks and potholes, weeds springing up wherever the broken asphalt allowed. Dave pulled behind the building, out of sight of the road and next to Candelario's car, which was still in the shape Horvath had left it. "That's…pretty classy," he said nervously, eyeing the gleaming 1921 Bentley 3-litre.

"Don't get too excited. It's actually a Chevy Cavalier," Candelario sniffed. "Get out, put your hands on the hood, and don't move 'till I come around."

Dave tucked the ignition key in his pocket and stepped out of the car, obediently planting his palms on the hood. As Candelario circled round, he tried to take stock of the area. The churchyard was overgrown, shrubs, weed, and vines climbing the banks and half-ruined fences around the lot. There was a side door with a broken chain, hanging ajar, and most of the windows were shattered. If there had ever been an alarm system, it had long gone unattended. Outside intervention seemed unlikely.

Somewhere in that building, his mother needed him.

Candelario came up behind him and reached for his wrist. With a small, fluid motion, Dave raised the other hand and released a jolt of energy, firing power directly into the blade of the knife. It twisted and coiled in the other man's hand, going glossy and vivid green, then whipping round to attach to his wrist. Candelario yelled in surprise and pain, dropping what had once been a kitchen knife but was now a small, bright snake.

Dave winced, because he had been thinking 'snake', but the possibility of a transfigured creature biting had not occurred to him. He kicked at the green reptile, and it tumbled across the gravel. Candelario was doubled over, clutching his wrist, wide-eyed and pale.

With a sinking feeling, Dave gripped his shoulder, half to keep him still, half to hold him up. Had he accidentally made something venomous? Had he just killed the man? Panic threatened to overtake him, but he forced it back. "Horvath!" he yelled, "If you're in there, I just want my mom. Let her go, and you can have your guy back, and we'll leave. Okay?"

Candelario's eyes swiveled toward the door as a familiar figure emerged. Horvath was in his shirtsleeves, and there was a blood spatter across his starched white shirt. He leaned against the wall of the building, twirling his cane idly. "Good afternoon, David," he greeted cheerfully. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement, but perhaps not on your terms. You see, _I_ have someone very dear to you, and you have…well, _that_." He gestured at Candelario carelessly.

"The snake," Candelario choked out.

Horvath glanced over to where the little reptile was lying stunned in the dust. With a gesture, he levitated it closer to himself, then clicked his tongue. "Why, Dave! A green mamba? That's quite creative, actually. Have you been watching much National Geographic? Still, it's generally considered a good policy not to injure your hostage until you're sure he won't get you what you want."

Dave swallowed hard. "I wasn't trying to…" He glanced at Candelario's stricken expression.

"Don't be absurd, my boy. Of course you were trying to hurt him. You're angry, you're afraid, and he was close by. That's what makes you an apprentice still, despite your unique power. Magic responds not just to our conscious commands, but our subconscious intent, and you haven't mastered yourself yet. And you have potential within you to level a city. Really, I'm surprised you didn't kill him outright."

Dave's grip on his hostage's shoulder slackened. He was horrified. "I just…where's my mom?" He felt his resolve crumbling, and the glint in Horvath's eyes suggested the effect was visible. Facing Morgana had been comparatively easy. The lines had been drawn for him, black and white, and all he'd had to do was fill them in.

Where was the prophecy now?

After a moment, the old Morganian answered, "She's alive. She'll likely need some time in the hospital to stay that way. Spirited woman, I quite like her." He gestured at the levitating snake, and it returned to its original form and dropped to the ground with a clang. "So, this is what we'll do. You will release Candelario, not because I especially need him, but because he's in the way of me getting a clear shot at you. And then you will come inside and do whatever I say. In return, I will leave your mother where she is instead of dragging her out here and disemboweling her while you watch. And don't get any ideas about attacking me with plasma bolts and electric cables. There's no power here anyway, but I promise you, if you raise a hand to me, your mother will die in the most gruesome way I can devise."

_Balthazar._ Dave thought desperately. Surely his master and the others would come find him, and soon. He slowly let go of Candelario, and the man sank into a sitting position on the ground.

"Good," Horvath nodded, and beckoned him over. "My apologies, Niccolo. I wasn't planning on killing you, myself, but poison is truly difficult to counteract magically. I haven't the time right now. I'll certainly keep it in mind to spare your descendents."

"You're a cold son of a bitch," the injured man rasped. But he knew his employer well. He hadn't expected any better.

"So I've been told. Dave. Come. Now."

Unable to think of another option, the Prime Merlinian, edged around Candelario, afraid to look him in the face. He crossed the parking lot uncertainly, and followed Horvath into the church.

Inside, the floor was swept clean, branches and leaves and debris piled in one corner. An immense circle, easily twenty-five feet in diameter, was sketched in the center of the room. It was vividly red, almost glowing in the dimmer indoor lighting. Dave took in the scene, then looked around frantically until he spied what he had come here for. At the front of the room, where the altar might have once sat, a cushiony feminine figure sprawled limply on a ratty blanket. He made a lunge for her, not with any real plan in mind but anxious to check her vitals. Horvath caught the back of his shirt. "No. Bad."

Dave pulled against the grip briefly, but the glimmer of the man's cane reminded him of the kind of damage he was capable of, and he stopped after a moment, glaring resentfully at the eldest Morganian. "Fine. Let's get this over with. You want to torture me? Kill me? What am I here for?"

"Not that those aren't tempting possibilities," Horvath said with a small smile, "and I am, in fact, a firm believer in revenge, but, no. You're going to help me finish what Morgana started."

"What?" The boy stared.

"The Rising, of course."

"No way." Dave shook his head. "There's nothing in the world that you could to do make me help you with that."

He laughed. "I think you'll find there is."

Dave felt tendrils of magic wrapping around his limbs, lifting him off the floor and flinging him into the air. Instinctively, he reached out with his own power to slow his fall, buffer his body against injury…but Horvath didn't want him injured in the first place. He dropped gently to the ground in the center of the red circle. Rolling to his feet, he rifled his memories for a spell that might incapacitate Horvath before he could get to Dave's mother, but the Morganian was already chanting, soft and low.

The red lines glittered, and the sound of Horvath's voice suddenly struck Dave as soothing. A dark lullabye. His hands dropped to his sides slowly. "What are you…what…I…no…" his speech became thick and lost coherency.

Lines of heat threaded through his body, like wires, molten wires threading through his veins. The pain was indescribable, but that low, rhythmic chant kept him from crying out, kept him from struggling. Horror and weird contentment mixed, dulling his senses, and his mind seemed to be floating away. This was wrong, this was cruelty beyond mere torture, and apathy swallowed up every last drop of inclination to rail against it, or even care about the violation.

"…Mom?" the last discernable word Dave's mind or mouth were able to form hung on the air like smoke, then drifted off into gray.

Blank.

* * *

Teleporting directly to Dave's location would have ruined the element of surprise, but they also couldn't afford the time it would take to make the drive. The tracking spell had pointed them to the right place, but Balthazar and Veronica decided to split up, each of them landing half a block away, one to the east, one to the west, and then closing in. The others were divided into groups between them. Becky went with Veronica, which left Abigail and Drake with Balthazar.

"You don't think one of us macho types should tag along to protect the ladies?" Sun-Lok smiled innocently as they made the arrangements. "I certainly don't mind."

It was in-character enough for Drake to play the flirting chauvinist, but Abigail saw danger signals. He could easily take the gun from Becky, use it to subdue or kill Veronica, and be at Blake's throat before she had a chance to warn any of them… "Please," she said softly, uncomfortably. "I would feel better if you stayed with me, Drake."

The older Merlinian gave a slight eyeroll, annoyed, but replied, "Veronica is just as capable of combat as I am. She and Becky will be fine, and frankly I don't trust either of you. Let's go."

Sun-Lok came to Abigail's side, giving her a long, thoughtful look, trying to gauge what part she was playing. He knew, she assumed, that in her he had only the most hostile ally. But he also knew her history with Blake. She looked back at him, letting anxiety shine through her eyes, but nothing else.

Sun-Lok clearly thought little of humanity, and less of women in particular. If he underestimated her, so much the better. She had played the ingénue role well in Salem.

Let him, and the others, think she was afraid of Balthazar. After all, she was.

* * *

They landed in a narrow, woodsy patch within stone's throw of the highway. Spring had not yet come to their area, and all around them was brambly and brown, with the only green being bursts of pine, ivy, and hardy weeds. Abigail was reminded of the woods around Salem village, hunting mushrooms with girls her age, wandering alone to quiet places where she could practice her magic.

She had met Balthazar in woods like these, and fallen.

The Merlinian moved ahead of them, quiet even in the fallen leaves, like a predator. Sun-Lok was less cautious, crackling and rustling through the bracken. It would have been un-Drake-like for him to do otherwise. Abigail trailed after them as quietly as she could, and in short order they came to an embankment that overlooked the church. Across the way, between a shed and a broken-down truck, she thought she saw a flash of violet and the gleam of blonde hair.

"He'll sense us the moment we use magic," Balthazar said quietly. "We'll try to get as close as we can on foot."

"You want us to lead the charge?" Sun-Lok asked quietly. "He's already draining us; he won't sense us coming close."

Balthazar frowned. "Abigail doesn't have a weapon. I'd prefer she, at least, hang back."

"He has something I need," she protested. "I won't be left behind."

He sighed. "I'll see to it that you get your talisman back, provided we all survive this. You have my word."

"Why?" Despite the gathering crisis, she felt compelled to voice the question she had never before dared to. "Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? Why try to save us now?"

He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "This isn't the time and place for philosophical discussion."

She searched his eyes for a clue to his thought process, and found none, but after a moment he turned away again and sighed, "You were alone, and hurting, and so was I."

Abigail glanced at Sun-Lok, who looked both impatient and unaffected, then back at the ancient Merlinian. "You can't show the same mercy to Horvath," she said.

"…no. It's him or me, this time." Blake moved forward. "Follow."

Quickly and quietly, they did, tensing for the clash to come.


End file.
